


From Every Bend in the Road

by Pugglemuggle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Not Hunters, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: deancasbigbang, DCBB, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2014, Explicit Language, F/M, Ghost Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, Hunter Castiel, Impala, Impala Sex, Kinda, Lawyer Sam Winchester, M/M, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Minor Character Death, Past Drug Use, Road Trips, Sexual Content, Witch Hunters, Witches, also, because i mean how could i not, enjoy the ride, i think that about covers it, oh and i almost forgot, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-24 23:32:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 21,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2600426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pugglemuggle/pseuds/Pugglemuggle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s a mechanic, not Danny Phantom. Nowhere in the paperwork did it warn him about waking up in a client’s car as a ghost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nobody’s Fault but Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written for the 2014 [Dean/Cas Big Bang](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/). I originally intended to write a Mini-Bang (10k) but the word count doubled during editing. Oops.
> 
>  **Acknowledgements:** I'd like to give a _huge_ thanks to my amazing beta, [Meg](http://sunshinegenius.tumblr.com/), who has been extremely helpful and supportive during the whole process. Seriously, you rock. I also want to extend a special thanks to the lovely artist [Katie](http://anglophile-rin.tumblr.com/), who stepped in last-minute to create the art below. You're a savior! Everyone should totally check her out! Her art tag is [here](http://anglophile-rin.tumblr.com/tagged/an+anglophile+destiels).
> 
>   
>  [(Full View)](http://s22.postimg.org/dg5idg2mp/DCMB.jpg)

* * *

“Get over it, Dean! This is happening whether you want it to or not.”

“Fine. Do it. Just don’t expect me to show up.”

“Are you serious?” Sam shouted, eyes bright. “You’re my _brother_.”

“Yeah, and I’m not coming.”

“How can you even say that?”

“I don’t know, how can _you_ be marrying a bitch like her?”

“You know what? Screw you,” said Sam, walking towards his car. He tore open the door and turned back to give Dean one last look, a look that was half fury and half pain. It was a look Dean had seen before, just directed at Dad—not at him. Never at him.

“Screw you,” Sam said again, intense, like he couldn’t quite believe he was saying it. Then he climbed into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut behind him. Sam didn’t start up the car right away, but as soon as he did, he wasted no time in pulling out of the auto shop and into the dark.

Then it was quiet.

Dean stared at Sam’s taillights until he couldn’t see them anymore. The night was cool and dusky, its pale summer stars almost invisible against the lights of the empty parking lot. When he was sure he couldn’t hear the sound of Sam’s engine anymore, he turned back to the garage, shoulders tight, fists clenched. He walked slowly all the way to the back door, and then stopped right in front of the line of trash bins leaning against the side of the building.

He knocked them all over, one by one, as hard as he could. The whole lot burst with the sound of crashing metal and old, rusty car parts tumbling onto the asphalt. The glass recycling was next, and then the aluminum, and then the landfill trash. He picked up a glass bottle and hurled it against the metal garage door. It shattered loudly, scattering small glittering shards across the pavement. He kicked and smashed and destroyed until his hands were riddled with cuts and the driveway shone with broken glass. Someone would have to clean this up in the morning—maybe him, maybe Adam, maybe one of the kids with the summer jobs. It didn’t matter. Finally, he stumbled back against the wall and slid down to the ground, leaning against the brick, surrounded by debris.

His eyes were wet, but he wasn’t crying. Dean didn’t do that kind of thing.

Sam had met Ruby about two years ago.

Apparently, they’d been at some college bar in Palo Alto. Sam had still been getting over Jess; Jess, who’d been intelligent and kind and blonde. Ruby hadn’t been intelligent—she’d been close to flunking half her classes—and the last thing anyone would call her was “kind”, but she _had_ been blonde, back then. She and Sam hooked up.

A couple months later, when Sam’s hair was longer and Ruby’s was darker, they were in the same Econ class. A month after that they were dating.

Dean hadn’t exactly minded her then—sure, she’d been a little dark, a little cagey, maybe a bit wild, but she’d also been _fun,_ and Sam had liked her. If Sam was happy, Dean was happy. That was Newton’s fourth law.

But then came the alcohol binges.

And the drugs.

And the cheating.

Everything was a mess for a long time. Sam almost lost his scholarship. He was hospitalized—twice—and all Ruby ever did was hand him the next hit. More than once, Sam had shown up on Dean’s doorstep, half high, half drunk, asking for a place to sleep because Ruby had left with another guy—again—and they were fighting—again. Ruby was like a leech, sucking Sam dry and leaving him broken with no money, no pride, no self-control. Dean had watched it all, and when Ruby had finally disappeared, Dean had been glad.

A year ago, she came back.

Like Sam, she’d been through rehab, and she claimed she was clean now—even had the sobriety chips to prove it. He really couldn’t figure out why Sam had let her back into his life so easily, after everything that had happened between them. Sam insisted that things were different now, and that Dean didn’t know the full story. Dean had a hard time buying that, mostly because he was pretty sure he _did_ know the full story, or at least as much of it as he needed to know (hint: the story Dean knew involved Sam, passed out on Dean’s couch, reeking like a frat bar and not breathing, _not breathing_ ). Dean had seen what Ruby had done to his brother, and he wasn’t about to risk having that happen again.

The worst part was that Ruby and Sam still hadn’t broken up. They’d been dating for a whole year, and if Sam somehow forgave Ruby for what she did, Dean sure as hell didn’t. His relationship with Sam was suffering. He didn’t talk with his brother as much as he used to, so the news of them getting engaged came as a shock—a very loud, angry shock accompanied by violence and a creative display of vulgar language.

And here Dean was, less than a month before the wedding, refusing to go down without a fight. Marrying people like Ruby wasn’t how their dad had raised them, and if Dean couldn’t convince Sam of that, then he certainly wasn’t going to stand by and watch.

But it was hard, _God_ was it hard. Even after weeks of nothing but arguments between them it was difficult for Dean to accept that the best thing he could do for Sam was keep away. Sam had made his decision. It had come down to a choice between Dean and Ruby, and Sam had picked Ruby.

Dean just hoped he could be there for Sam when Ruby inevitably broke him again. Dean would always be around to pick up the pieces.

_“Uh, hey, Dean—it’s Sam. I just wanted to, um, apologize, for yesterday—“_

“Message Erased.”

_“Hi, Dean. It’s Sam. Did you get my voicemail earlier? I’m really sorry—“_

“Message Erased.”

_“Hi, Dean. It’s Sam. Look, Dean, I still want you to come to—“_

“Message Erased.”

 _“Hi, Dean. It’s Sam. Please call me back. I—_ ”

“Message Erased.”

_“Hi, Dean. It’s Sam—”_

“Message Erased.”

He couldn’t avoid Sam forever, he knew. Every time he saw Sam’s name buzz onto the screen of his phone, he felt half-tempted to answer. More than half-tempted, actually. He began to keep his phone off for most of the day until eventually, he started leaving it at home altogether. Now wasn't a good time; he'd deal with Sam later, he told himself.

Considering how he’d been acting, maybe he should have been prepared for the knock on the shop's half-shut garage door one evening after closing. Dean swore from under the car he was working on—a gorgeous black Chevrolet—and drifted back on the creeper a little so that he could see the entrance better. It couldn’t be a customer, unless it was a really damned confused customer. That meant it was someone he knew, and he wasn’t particularly willing to deal with people in that category at the moment. Especially when that person was walking towards him wearing torn black skinny jeans tucked into combat boots.

“I didn’t come to fight with you,” she said.

Dean rolled out from under the car and got to his feet, rubbing the grease from his hands onto his work pants. He didn’t look at her for a while and began to wonder if he could get away with pretending she wasn’t there. Maybe that was petty, but then, he really didn’t give a shit.

“What do you want?” he asked eventually, his back towards her as he inspected the Chevy’s paint job. It was immaculate—he knew it was, because he’d checked it himself yesterday.

“I just want to talk,” she insisted.

“Did Sam tell you to come?”

“No.”

“Does he know you’re here?”

“No.”

“So why did you come?”

“Like I said, I just want to talk.”

“Yeah? Well, guess what? You’re not welcome here,” Dean said, turning to face her. “I think you should leave.”

To her credit, Ruby didn’t back down. She was a stubborn bitch, he’d give her that.

“You know, I get it. You don’t like me. Fine,” she said, crossing her arms. “But I think it’d be best if you reconsidered what you told Sam the other night.”

“I really don’t give a shit what you think would be best.”

“This isn’t—”

“ _I don't give a fuck._ This is _my_ decision, so you better stay the hell out of it.”

“God! This is not about _you_ , Dean!” she shouted suddenly, and she seemed larger somehow, taller than 5'6". “I really don’t give a fuck about you either, or what _you_ want. I don’t give a fuck if you’re happy about this. But you know who I do give a fuck about? Sam. I’m here about _Sam_ , you asshole. You don’t like me? Tough. _We’re getting married_ , so you better fucking deal with it.”

“What makes you think I want anything to do with this wedding?” Dean snapped. “What makes you think I care?”

“Do you even fucking listen? _It’s not about you_.” She was staring at him without blinking, to the point where it was fucking disorienting. “This is about _Sam_. If this were about me, I wouldn’t have to see your face ever again, and I wouldn’t let you anywhere _near_ our wedding. But that would ruin Sam’s day, you know that? Sam cares about you a hell of a lot more than you deserve. Unlike you, I just want him to be happy. Fighting with you is killing him, Dean. If you care about your brother at all, you won’t ruin the most important day of his life by not showing up.”

Dean looked away. He glanced around the room, at the cars, at the tools, at the tires and shelving and junk metal. Then he shook his head. “If my dad was still around, he wouldn’t go, either.”

“Why the fuck does that matter?”

“My dad raised us. Taught us what was what. Some things are good, and some things are bad, and you? You’re as bad as they get. It’s that simple.”

“Don’t think for one second you know _shit_ about who I am,” said Ruby dangerously. “Don’t you fucking dare think you know what Sam and I are to each other.”

“Oh, I can guess. Dealers, maybe?”

“What about you, Dean? Have you been to double-A recently?” When he didn’t answer, she laughed, shrill and harsh. “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

Dean wanted to punch her for that. In his mind’s eye, an image of Ruby on the ground with blood running from her nose flirted with his better judgment. Even she should have known that AA was a low blow. At that moment, nothing would have given him greater satisfaction than showing her his right hook.

He didn’t, though. He was a dick, but even he wouldn’t beat up his brother’s fiancée.

“You know what, sweetheart?” he said quietly. “Here’s what it comes down to. Sam should know better than to marry you. So I’m not going to suck it up and go to your damn wedding. I’m going to wait until he comes crawling back, and I’ll fix him up again, help him pick up the pieces. Because he will come back, he always does. I know him a hell of a lot better than you do. You, you’re just temporary, some slut he picked up at a bar. I’m the only family he’s got left. When you fuck him up again, he’ll come back here and he’ll wish he never met you.”

Ruby started shaking her head, slowly, back and forth, her jaw set tight. “You’re really fucked up, aren’t you?”

“I guess that’s part of my charm.”

“You need to get over yourself,” she said. “Your daddy? He taught you some shitty ideals if this is what you think is best for your brother. Get your head out of your ass. Look around. Is this how you want to die, like your dad? Working all the time, alone, just him and his fucking family auto business? You have a choice, Dean. Your brother, or nothing but these fucking cars for the rest of your goddamn life.”

“If it means I don’t have to see your face again, I’ll take the cars.”

“I’m done,” she said, throwing her hands in the air and walking backwards towards the garage door. “I am so fucking done with your shit. Have a good life, fucker. Enjoy your shitty family business.” She ducked under the metal slider and started walking away.

“Fuck you, too.”

She just gave him the finger and kept going.

As soon as she was out of sight, he pulled the sliding door down so hard that the corrugated metal almost slid out of the rollers. After kicking over a work bench, he went to the fridge at the back of the break room and grabbed a beer. It was his own fucking auto shop, and it was past closing time, anyway. It wasn’t like there was anyone around to give a shit.

One beer turned into two, then four, and then beer turned into whisky. Every sip tasted like Ruby’s voice—“ _Been to double-A recently? Yeah, I didn’t think so._ ” Dean couldn’t drive home, he knew that. There was a couch in the waiting room, but he didn’t want to be in there. He went to the garage instead and got back to work on the gorgeous black Chevy. Vaguely, he was aware that it probably wasn’t a good idea to be working under a car in the middle of the night with no one there, especially when he hadn’t turned on any lights. But he knew cars. He knew cars inside and out, and if he wasn’t good for anything else (which he wasn’t, really), he was at least good for fixing cars. He liked cars. He liked that they were methodical, and easy, and you always knew what to expect from them. You didn’t have to think, not when you’d spent as many years with them as Dean had.

He felt his way around the underbody, touching the metal, mapping out the engine, listing part names as he came to them. Sensors, shocks, axles, gearbox…. He rolled the creeper under the exhaust pipe and started working out the bolts and clamps. That was why the car had come in, after all. It needed a new Y-pipe, which was simple enough to replace, but only if you knew what you were doing. Dean was done in fifteen minutes flat. He probably could have done it faster if he’d been sober.

When he rolled out from under the Chevy, he opened up the passenger-side door and sat for a while, just looking. The car had some great leather, he thought appreciatively. That was the last thing he remembered before passing out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **About Titles:** In case you were wondering, all chapter titles are Led Zeppelin songs, because I'm a dork. The fic's title, "From Every Bend in the Road", is taken from the lyrics of "In the Light".


	2. Communication Breakdown

“How much do I owe you?”

“Our standard tune-up price is fifty bucks, and it looks like all you needed replaced was the Y-pipe, so that’s where that twenty-five comes from, here—”

“Oh, yes, I see.”

“So your total—it’s at the bottom, there—it comes out to seventy-five.”

“That seems… inexpensive.”

“Well, it was a pretty simple job. You’ve got a great car, by the way. You don’t see a lot of ‘67s driving around anymore.”

“I honestly don’t know a lot about cars,” the first man confessed. Dean didn’t recognize the voice, so he figured it must be a customer. The other one was Adam, he was sure, but why was Adam in the garage? Adam was supposed to be at the front desk. He checked customers in, took their cars, and took their money, if the job required a deposit up front. Adam wasn’t supposed to be bringing customers into the garage—that was Dean’s job. Why hadn’t Adam come to get him?

Adam’s voice picked up again, sounding appreciative. “Well, for not knowing much about cars, yours is in really great shape.”

“I get it looked at often. Is cash acceptable?”

“Sure.”

There was the sound of paper shuffling, and bills being counted, and then there was the scribbling of a pen on paper.

“Well, it looks like you’re good to go, Mr. Novak,” said Adam after a moment. “Thanks for the business.”

“Thank you for fixing my car.”

Dean couldn’t figure out what was going on. He was sitting in the passenger seat, but he felt like he wasn’t really there, like in dreams where you’re watching something happen but you’re not at the scene, or if you are, you’re invisible. It was the same as watching a movie: hearing the characters talk, seeing their faces, feeling like you’re in that moment when you’re actually on your couch at home, sitting on your ass and trying to forget that you have to get up at 7 A.M. to go to work the next morning. Dean held up his hands, and—yup, he could still see them, which was a small relief. Still, something was missing.

He sat up in his seat, turning around to look at where Adam and the customer were standing, right next to the garage’s side-entrance. They didn’t seem to notice him, even when he waved. “Uh, hello?” Neither of them acknowledged him. Dean tried clearing his throat. “Hey. Adam! _Adam!_ What’s going on, man?”

Adam kept going through paperwork with the customer and didn’t so much as blink. An uneasy feeling settled deep in Dean’s chest. This was a joke, wasn’t it? Find Dean passed out in a customer’s car, pretend he doesn’t exist to get back at him. “Ha-ha, Adam, really funny.”

No response.

Dean reached for the door handle, gripping it tight, and—

A bone-deep chill went through him.

Something wasn’t just missing—something was _wrong._

His hand—no. He tried another time, and the dark, cold feeling grew stronger, like ice creeping over a pond. It happened again, again, again. How…? What was this? _Why was his hand passing through the door handle?_

Dean could feel himself starting to lose it. He wasn’t normally the kind of guy who freaked out about things, but considering he’d woken up without any evidence of his own physical existence, Dean gave himself a free pass. Usually, by the time he realized he was having a nightmare, he could stop dreaming and force himself awake, even though getting back to sleep again was never so easy. This didn’t seem like any of Dean’s dreams, though. Aside from rare occasions that were few and far between, he was always dreaming the same three dreams: one with his mom, one with his brother, and one with his dad. This dream? It didn’t have any of the regular cast. The only family he had in the room was Adam, and Adam only half counted.

It couldn’t be a dream.

It _had_ to be a dream.

The man—the customer—opened the car door, sat down, fumbled with the keys for a moment, started the engine. Dean felt a jolt of panic, and the radio came alive with a few bursts of static. Then they were backing out of the garage, pulling into the parking lot, turning right onto the street, and he couldn’t see the auto shop anymore—it was out of sight, _gone_. The guy was driving up the freeway onramp now, southbound, and he still hadn’t acknowledging that Dean was sitting right next to him. This was so fucked up.

It wasn’t a dream, or even a nightmare. Dean was a light sleeper, and everything was way too vivid and _real_. His subconscious didn’t have a reputation for being all that imaginative. This wasn’t a nightmare—it was reality, which, in Dean’s experience, was usually worse.

He had no idea what was happening to him. The only things he did know were (1) his hands were insubstantial; (2) the car he was sitting in was a jet-black 1967 Chevy Impala; and (3) with every passing second, he was getting farther and farther from Lawrence, Kansas.

That really wasn’t a lot to go off of.

After a couple hours on the road and a lot more panic, Dean determined that he couldn’t be _completely_ a ghost, because they hadn’t seemed to find his body that morning in the car. However, the thought did cross his mind that maybe, the whole body thing didn’t matter, and he was dead anyway. He’d always suspected that alcohol poisoning might get the better of him one day. If anything were to make him go Casper, it’d be that. Being dead wasn’t something he wanted to contemplate for long, though, so he pushed the possibility to the back of his mind. As much of a fuckup as he was, he wasn’t ready to stop living just yet. And besides, if things continued like this, it seemed like he’d have plenty of time to worry about it later.

The guy driving the car wasn’t very good company. Dean hadn’t been paying much attention to him back at the garage—he’d had bigger things to worry about—but now that most of the dust had settled, it was almost painfully obvious to Dean that this guy was not a car guy. He looked like the kind of person you’d find working in an office building, what with the white button-up and the slacks and a blue tie. Everything about him was a little rumpled, though: a well-traveled dishevelment that Dean was only too familiar with. It was the kind of dishevelment that said you’d been on the road for a while. The guy’s shirt was wrinkled, his tie crooked, his hair mussed. He looked tired.

He also had shitty taste in music. Like, Taylor Swift meets weird Icelandic alternative hip-hop. Dean actually did try once to turn on the radio to a decent classic rock station, but, predictably, he wasn’t able to use the knobs without his hand passing through them. If this was hell, then Satan was a clever man, because having to put up with this guy’s music choices was killing him.

He got to thinking about what would happen back at the garage without him there. It wasn’t the first time he’d skipped out of work without warning, but he doubted this was going to be a one-day thing. Benny, the other mechanic, could cover for him for a little while, but what if this lasted for more than a few days? What if he was out the rest of the week?

Dean didn’t like to think about being out for longer than that. He didn’t want to consider the possibility that this thing—whatever it was—would be an indefinite imprisonment.

They had to stop for gas twice before it got dark.

This guy had a really nice car, but at the end of the day, it was a gas guzzler. That was the one downside about old cars. Dean couldn’t figure out why someone would bother taking a car like this on a road trip, since it was clearly pretty expensive; but then, it seemed like something Dean would do, and he didn’t want to be a hypocrite. He stopped mentally criticizing the dude.

The second gas station was at some tiny town in the middle of Arkansas, about 400 miles away from Lawrence. They’d left Kansas at around 11:00 A.M., and now it was starting to get dark. Dean was pretty sure that if he’d been driving, he would’ve been able to get them there a couple hours earlier, but this guy seems to like to take the slowest routes and drive _below_ the speed limit at all times, which was annoying as fuck. They’d hit some traffic around Wichita, which had slowed them down even more, and for some reason, this guy took forever to fill up the damn gas tank.

When the pump clicked and the gas stopped flowing, the man went inside to pay—cash, just like at the garage—and when he came back out, he was still fumbling to get the receipt into his wallet. Dean got a nice, long look at his driver’s license.

Castiel Novak.

Huh.

When the guy—“Castiel”—started the ignition, the spark plug sputtered a few times before the engine roared to life. It was a great-sounding engine, Dean thought appreciatively. A nice, deep tone, low and rumbling. It was a sound he’d been trying to focus on for most of the day while ignoring the hellsong coming out of the speakers. Luckily, it seemed like Castiel was driving them towards the Super 8 down the road. He only had to deal with Castiel’s “music”—if it could even be called that—until he turned the car off for the night.

As predicted, they pulled into the Super 8 parking lot. The place was almost empty—apparently not many people liked to visit Johnson, Arkansas on a Tuesday night. Dean watched Castiel grab a duffle bag from the back, open the door to the lobby, and walk up to the receptionist’s desk. Then Castiel pulled out his wallet and handed the man a few Jacksons before disappearing down a hallway.

Dean wondered if he would be able to sleep, now that he was… whatever he was. He leaned back in the seat, hands behind his head, and tried to get comfortable. The sounds of the freeway and the road behind him made the night noisier than he was used to back in Kansas, but at least there was no music. Ten minutes later, he was drifting off.

The nightmares only woke him up twice.


	3. Hey Hey What Can I Do

He was woken up at 6:30 A.M. by the rumbling sound of the Impala’s engine coming to life. Castiel was there in the driver’s seat, hands on the steering wheel, looking back over his shoulder to check his blind spots.

“Early riser, eh Castiel?” Dean asked, yawning.

The sun was only just beginning to stain the road in front of them, a sight Dean hadn’t seen in a long time. He didn’t normally wake up this early, and on the rare occasions when he did, he certainly didn’t have the time to stop and check out the sunrise. But now here he was, looking at the peach-pink sky, stuck in a car with some weird guy who apparently didn’t know what a razor was, because Castiel’s 5 o’clock shadow from yesterday was now looking more like a 10 o’clock shadow. There were bags under his eyes, as though he hadn’t slept at all during the seven hours they’d been parked at the hotel. In fact, his whole face looked worn and drawn, his jaw tight, his eyes staring intently at the road ahead like it could tell him the meaning of life.

And also Castiel still had really shitty taste in music. Dean was losing his patience with it.

“Is this really the only music you like? Just these weird-ass cassette tapes from some kind of Scandinavian alternative band?” Dean asked. “I’d probably take literally anything else at this point—what about NPR? You seem like an NPR kind of guy.”

Ten minutes later, Dean lowered his standards.

“Okay, I’ll accept Coldplay. Or Whitney Houston. You pick.”

After another ten minutes, he started to get desperate.

“Rap music? Do you like that kind of shit? At least that has a beat.”

“How about the Backstreet Boys?”

“What’s the name of that new English boy band? One…. One... something?”

“Justin Timberlake. There. I said it. Is this what you wanted?”

“Celine Di…. No, no. Fuck that. I’d never stoop that low.”

It was when he heard the tape skip back to the beginning that he finally lost it.

“No. No way. I am _not_ listening to that whole thing _again_ ,” he said loudly, glaring at Castiel and then at the cassette player and radio like they had personally offended him, which, he decided, they definitely had. “I need some fucking _decent music_. Classic rock! This car was _made_ for classic rock! We need some classic rock _right now,_ or so help me—”

After a brief buzz of static, the cassette ejected itself from the cassette player and the radio blinked to life, immediately tuning to 93.2 FM— _“the Best of Rock & Roll, all day, every day!” _

Wow. He hadn’t expected that to actually work.

Dean saw Castiel’s eyes shoot to the radio with a look of distrust. Dean hadn’t been intending to pull some kind of The Poltergeist II shit on Castiel, since he seemed like a pretty decent guy, even if he was a little weird. But then again, if Dean was going to be stuck in this car for an indeterminate amount of time with no one to talk to, the least Castiel could do was let him pick the music.

Castiel did try to put the cassette back in once or twice. Each time, Dean would stare at it until it popped back out again. He couldn’t help but find something ridiculously satisfying about the intensely confused look on Castiel’s face after each failed attempt. He looked so mystified, squinting and tilting his head like a bewildered dog whenever the radio changed stations without warning. Dean almost laughed a few times.

The road trip became far more pleasant after that.

They took an exit for a rest stop at around three. They weren’t headed in any particular direction, Dean noticed. Although they’d spent the entire first day driving to Arkansas, they seemed to be headed northeast today, passing through Mississippi and Tennessee and eventually Kentucky. If Castiel had wanted to go to Kentucky, he could have just gone straight through Missouri on the first day and saved himself a whole lot of miles. On the other hand, if this was actually some kind weird destinationless self-discovery road trip, this guy wasn’t picking very interesting places to drive through. Most of what they’d seen so far was agricultural land, particularly corn fields. The Midwest really didn’t rake in a lot of money for sightseeing.

Aside from a very brief break earlier in Memphis for gas and White Castle, this rest stop was the first time that day that they’d left I-40. Dean had to admit, he was impressed. Castiel drove like a nervous kid taking his driving test: he followed all the traffic rules to a T, including the blind spot and mirror checks, and he sat so close to the wheel that his bent knees almost touched the bottom of the steering wheel. For a guy on a road trip, he didn’t seem to enjoy driving all that much.

The rest stop was completely deserted when they got there. The parking lot was empty, save for an overturned trash can that had spilled over one of the spaces on the far side. Despite the plethora of vacant spots, Castiel spent a good five minutes parking and then re-parking so that the car was perfectly centered in between the painted white lines. Dean couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “Are you always so anal retentive?” he asked.

When Castiel left for the restroom, Dean started to look for the seat adjustments. He found them underneath the seat, and after a minute of staring at it, talking to it, and willing it to move, it finally did. The force was with him.

As he had expected and, if he was honest, hoped for, Castiel made his signature Intensely Confused Squinty Face when he came back to find his seat pushed away from the wheel as far as it would go, reclined to the absolute maximum. What was even funnier was the way Castiel struggled to correct the grossly maladjusted seat back to the way it had been before, scooting the seat forward and trying to force the back to a more upright position as he tried to pull the lever and the seat at the same time. Dean laughed for a while, and then he may or may not have given Castiel a hand.

“It’s safer to be farther away from the wheel, you know,” he said, ghosting one of the levers down. “Airbags don’t mess around.”

The next morning after another night at a hotel, Castiel went to a drive-through Starbucks, much to Dean’s disgust. Even in the middle of nowhere at 7 A.M., the parking lot was packed, and the line just to get over to the microphone was ludicrous enough. It took them at least ten minutes of waiting before Castiel could place his order.

 _“Hi, welcome to Starbucks. What can I get for you?”_ said the voice through the speaker.

“Hi,” Cas replied. He took his time looking at the menu before answering, “I’d like a chai tea latte, please.”

Dean barked out a surprised laugh, and the car radio buzzed with momentary static. “What, seriously? A _chai tea latte?_ What are you, a soccer mom? Oh my god….”

 _“I’m sorry, what was that?”_ the cashier asked, sounding unsure. _“Did you ask for a chai tea latte?”_

Castiel replied with a simple, “Yes, please.”

_“What size would you like?”_

“Um…. I would like a… large?”

_“Grande?”_

“Um, yes.”

_“Is there anything else I can get you?”_

“No, that’s fine. Could I get some extra napkins with my order?”

“ _Sure thing_.”

“Thank you.”

Castiel pulled the car forward a little as soon as his order had been taken, but it still took them a while to reach the next window. Out of spite, Dean decided to stare at the rear-view mirror until it tilted itself upward, reflecting the ceiling.

Eventually, they reached the pickup window and the drive-through employee returned with Castiel’s white-girl latte. “Here you are, sir,” she said, handing him the cup through the window. “That’ll be $3.65, please.”

He handed the woman a five, and she exchanged it for his change and a receipt. Just as Castiel put the car into gear, the woman reappeared. “Oh!” she said. “I almost forgot! Here are the napkins you asked for.”

Castiel stuffed the stack of Starbucks napkins into the glove compartment once they got back on the freeway. Before he could close it again, however, Dean caught a glimpse of something that made his breath catch and his blood run cold. It was tucked in between a stack of cassettes and a pile of papers, danger in a case of gleaming black metal.

A gun.

_Who the fuck was this guy?_


	4. Night Flight

Despite the discovery that his chauffeur kept a _fucking handgun in his glovebox_ , Dean found himself far less wary than he probably should have been. Of all the people he knew, the awkward, rule-following, chai latte-sipping Castiel seemed like the least likely candidate to own a gun, let alone shoot one. Dean almost wondered if it was fake. He considered trying to pop open the glove box to check, but he restrained himself. He almost didn’t want to know.

For the next couple of days, Dean kept up his pranks. Castiel’s Intensely Confused Face softened into a more average Confused Face, and then to something fonder. Dean suspected that Castiel had begun to figure out he was there, but instead of selling the car or trying to perform some kind of exorcism like a normal person might have, Castiel seemed… warm—charmed, almost. Even when Dean locked Castiel’s keys in the car, the guy didn’t seem angry so much as bemused. Dean wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or belittled by that.

Dean was even starting to get used to the car, which was actually sort of nice. He knew the difference between the way the engine felt in the morning when it was still warming up versus the afternoon when it’d been running for a while. The sound of the road moving under the tires was almost as familiar as the hum of a refrigerator or washing machine. He was even beginning to get accustomed to the ins and outs of ghosthood, including the lack of bodily memos like hunger, thirst, and nature’s call. Sure, he kind of wished he could eat a burger when Castiel was eating one next to him, but he always wanted burgers—that wasn’t anything new.

Five days after he’d woken up in Castiel’s Impala, they stopped at a Chevron in Nebraska for gas. No one but them was parked there, aside from a blue pickup truck he guessed belonged to whoever was unlucky enough to be on the register inside the Mini Mart. Dean wouldn’t have been surprised if a real-live honest to God tumbleweed had blown through the parking lot.

Cas got out to run into the convenience store, presumably to pre-pay the gas (with cash, as always) before he started pumping. Maybe he’d get himself a PayDay, too—he seemed to buy those every now and then, especially in the mornings, Dean had noticed. PayDays and White Castle appeared to make up the majority of Castiel’s diet from what Dean could see, unless Castiel was secretly gorging himself on room service every time he went into a hotel. Somehow, Dean doubted that.

The continuous hum of the highway a little way off was the only sound he could hear. It was sweltering out, and the pavement down the road shimmered with the heat, as though even the asphalt couldn’t help but sweat. Being Danny Phantom made him decidedly less susceptible to the heat, but he could still tell that it was hotter than Satan’s armpit out there. He looked around at the fields of corn around them, and—

If it was so hot out, why was this guy wearing a black hoodie?

Even Castiel had ditched his perpetual long-sleeved button-up for something more suitable to the weather: a dark blue polo shirt that made him look like he worked at Best Buy. The guy at the other end of the parking lot was wearing dark jeans and a sweatshirt with the hood up over his face. If that didn’t scream suspicious, then Dean didn’t know what did.

To make matters worse, the guy was walking towards the Impala. Dean watched him hesitate and steal a sideways look at the Mini Mart, before he crossed the rest of the lot and slipped around the back of the car. The moment the man put his hand on the handle of the Impala’s trunk, Dean knew they were in trouble.

Immediately, he willed the car doors to lock, hearing the satisfying _click_ as they all fell into place. The trunk was already locked, luckily—Castiel never seemed to open it. The man moved from the back to one of the side doors, trying the handle on that, too. When it didn’t give, he pulled out a small flat box from his pocket and began messing with the lock.

The box was a lock-picking set.

“Hey! Back off!” Dean said ineffectually. He pounded on the window, but that made no difference either. “Hey! Get the fuck away from the car, you asshole!”

Just as he heard the lock pick begin to turn, Dean leaned forward and punched the car horn with his fist. For once, he was rewarded by a loud, piercing blast that scattered a group of crows on the opposite side of the lot. The would-be intruder stumbled backward before turning on his heel and booking it back towards the direction he’d come, ducking behind the building and disappearing from sight.

Castiel rushed out of the Mini Mart a second too late to see the man go. He jogged out towards the car, where Dean was still pounding his hand on the horn. After a couple moments he realized that somehow, he’d managed to get the car’s lights flashing too, and the car radio was all up in a tizzy with static.

Castiel was squinting at the car, looking concerned, so Dean decided to finally back off from the wheel. As soon as he did so, the radio went silent and the lights flicked off. There was a slight ringing in his ears, as though his brain was suddenly trying to make up for the soundless void the horn left behind.

Gingerly, Castiel unlocked the car door and climbed in. Only when they got back on the highway did Dean finally start to feel the adrenaline rush begin to fade.

“Well, there you go, Castiel. You didn’t get robbed,” he mumbled. “You’re welcome.”

That evening, after Castiel got his dinner from a Burger King drive-through (there hadn’t been a White Castle in town), they turned into the front parking lot of the nearest Quality Inn. Castiel parked close to the front, but he didn’t get out right away. When he did put a hand on the handle, Dean locked the door.

He hadn’t even meant to do it. He wasn’t sure why he’d even bothered. It was dumb, since it would be easy enough for Castiel to just unlock it again. But Castiel didn’t. Instead, he sat back in his seat and smiled a little.

“You know,” Castiel said aloud, his voice low. Dean froze. “I’m still coming back in the morning—I promise.”

Slowly, Dean relented, allowing the driver-side door unlock itself again. With gentle hands, Castiel pushed open the door and stepped out into the night. The door fell shut quietly behind him. He stood, solitary, his hair a mess and his eyes glancing back at the car and then upward, at the stars. A moment later, he went into the hotel and was gone.

Dean locked the car doors and then got on his back, lying across the bench seat with his feet near the steering wheel. If he sat with his head tilted at the right angle, he could see the stars too.

The next day, they left the hotel even earlier than they had any of the previous nights. Castiel looked totally exhausted. Dean almost wondered if it was safe for him to be driving. However, he seemed to do fine during the first part of the day, despite Dean’s reservations. In addition to the usual purchases, Castiel bought a bottle of 5-Hour Energy and a watery-looking espresso from a 7-Eleven. Then he bought another 5-Hour Energy at the next gas station around noon, and another at 5 P.M. Dean was concerned, to say the least. Castiel looked totally worn out, his eyes bloodshot and his face pale. When ten o’clock came around and the last dregs of daylight disappeared behind the stars, Dean started to get actively worried. The headlights on the Chevy were good, but the lights from oncoming traffic were pretty bright too, and the glare made it hard to see ahead. There wasn’t much of a median, either.

Castiel looked completely out of it. That, more than anything else, was making Dean nervous. The radio had been turned off, which struck Dean as even more distressing. Dean used coffee and loud music to stay awake when he was driving at night, and neither of those could be found in Castiel’s car right now. He couldn’t say he was very surprised when he caught Castiel squeezing his eyes shut and then opening them again wide, the way people do when they’re trying to shake off sleep. Then came the yawning, followed by the retaliatory stretching and shifting around in the seat. They didn’t have long before they were in some really deep shit; Dean knew how this worked.

“Hey, dude, you gotta stay awake,” Dean said. “Go find a hotel or something.”

Fifteen minutes later, he went for more drastic measures. “Hey,” he said, and tried to grab Castiel’s shoulder. Unsurprisingly, his hand passed right through it. Castiel shivered a little, but his eyes were still drooping. The radio began to pick up a low buzz of static.

“Listen, buddy, you gotta stop. There’s an exit, see that? Take that exit. Take it. Take it now. Seriously? You’re going to keep going? Get over to the right lane. You’re missing the exit. You’re missing it, you’re missing it…. You’ve missed it. Great.” Dean rubbed his hand against his forehead. “This is useless. Why am I even here? Why am I even saying anything?”

Castiel was looking dangerously close to falling asleep. His eyes would close for a good two seconds, and then they’d jerk open, and he’d lean forward in the seat, even more than he was already. Then he’d lean back again, and his eyes would start to squint, and then close, and the same process would start all over again.

Except, one time, it didn’t.

“Dude,” Dean said. Castiel’s eyes were still closed. “Hey, man, you gotta wake up. Wake up.” He waved his hand through Castiel’s head, but nothing happened. “Shit, dude, wake up. Wake up now.” The road was starting to curve right, and Castiel’s car wasn’t. “Castiel, buddy, wake up. Shit, shit! Wake up! Fuck! Wake the fuck up! Castiel! _Castiel! Cas!_ ”

Dean saw everything happening like he was watching a video play at half-speed. There was a car coming around the bend. Castiel had drifted across the painted median and right into the lane for oncoming traffic. They were going to hit. They were going to hit the car.

Dean grabbed the steering wheel and jerked it to the right, making the car swerve back into their lane. The static from the radio was almost deafening, and Castiel jolted awake. Dean could practically see him trying to figure out what had just happened, and he was relieved when they immediately pulled over onto the shoulder.

“Holy fuck,” Dean said as soon as the engine had turned off. He was breathing hard, and it looked like Castiel was, too. They sat in silence, wide-eyed and panting, staring out at the road ahead. When Dean looked away to check on Cas, he could see nothing but shock.

He didn’t expect for Castiel to take out a cell phone—an old one that flipped open—and go straight to speed dial. Maybe he was calling someone to pick him up—

“Michael?” Castiel said. The sound of his voice was higher than usual, lacking the dark, rasping tones Dean had gotten used to. Dean thought he heard a response on the other end of the line, but it was quickly drowned out by Castiel’s next question.

“Did you do something to the car?” Castiel’s voice was harsh, demanding. There was a pause, and some indistinct words from the other speaker. “There’s— It doesn’t matter. Did you or did you not do something to the car?”

Michael’s voice was raised, but Dean couldn’t make out what he was saying. He thought he heard an exasperated “— _don’t know_ —” but he could have been wrong.

“You didn’t animate it, did you? Your protection isn’t needed anymore. I _left_.” Castiel said. The answer he got was short, but it seemed to satisfy him enough that some of the tension left his face and the furrow in his brow smoothed. “I don’t know what happened. It seemed like…. Yes…. No, nothing like that. It’s been strictly level-one…. About a week ago…. Missouri? No, not yet.... No, only in the car….”

There were a few more inaudible questions and a few more vague answers

Finally, Castiel let out a sigh. “I was driving, and I fell asleep—”

A loud stream of words poured out of the phone. Apparently Michael had a lot to say about that. Good, Dean thought.

“I am aware of that, Michael. You don’t need to—”

“No, it’s— Michael, _please_ …. No, please don’t tell Father. I don’t want to bother—”

“I was driving into traffic, and the steering wheel moved. I thought you might have known something about it, and you didn’t. That’s all. Can we please stop talking about this?”

There was another flurry of loud words.

“I _left._ ” Castiel interrupted. “I knew the consequences, and I am fully capable of dealing with them on my own.”

Michael said something else, and Castiel looked guilty. “Has there been any sign of him?”

The voice on the phone was quieter now, the tone more moderate. Castiel nodded as Michael spoke. “Well, if you do… see him… please let me know. I’ve been taking all the necessary precautions. Raphael won’t find me.”

When Michael replied, Dean thought he saw the barest hint of a smile. “I know. He always was the best of us.”

Michael seemed to agree. Castiel glanced at the dashboard clock on the Impala briefly, squinting.

“I... apologize, for calling you this late at night…. No, I shouldn’t have…. Yes…. If it’s not too much trouble, would you, um, mind saying hello to the others for me? Thank you, Michael…. Goodbye.”

The night’s silence filled the car again. In the distance, a train whistled.

“What was that about?” Dean asked.

No reply. That was fine—he hadn’t expected one. Except.... Castiel waited before starting the engine. The car was in neutral, his foot was on the clutch, and his hand was on the keys, but he wasn’t turning them. Instead, he looked back, up, to the side, at a vague point just past Dean’s head, and said, “Thank you.”

And then Castiel was starting the car again, the Impala’s roaring engine breaking the quiet between them. He drove off without another word.

Ten minutes later, after Cas had parked in front of a Motel 6 and locked the car behind him, Dean replied, “Any time.”  


	5. Houses of the Holy

The next morning, Cas was quiet, and although the bags under his eyes weren’t nearly as dark as they’d been the day before, he still looked tired.

“You okay, man?” Dean asked. Cas just turned around and reached for a road atlas lying open on the back seat. The thing was crumpled and well-used, corners torn and pages folded. Dean could see that most of the pages had lines drawn on them in blue pen, connecting cities and circling names. Castiel paused at one of the pages eventually: a map of Indiana and Illinois. Peering over his shoulder, Dean watched as Cas ran his thumb along highways and settled somewhere near the upper left. His finger hovered over a small town in the middle of nowhere, circled so many times in red that it was hard to tell which roads led in and which ones didn’t.

“So, Cas, what’s in Roanoke, Illinois?” Dean asked when Cas started the car again. In lieu of an answer, Cas steered the car onto the freeway, heading back in the same direction they’d come from the day before. Whatever it was, it was important enough to make Cas change his route mid-trip. That was, if they’d even had a route to begin with—Dean still wasn’t sure.

Dean was curious about Roanoke, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little worried, too. Red pen was a little ominous.

As it turned out, the importance of Roanoke wasn’t a “what”, but a “who”.

The whole drive there was particularly uncomfortable. Cas didn’t usually say anything, but somehow he seemed even more withdrawn than usual. Dean couldn’t help but put on some loud music, which just made Cas frown harder and speed up a couple miles per hour over the speed limit. Dean counted that as a small victory.

As soon as they crossed the border into Illinois, Cas gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white. To Dean, the crossing was meaningless—a fading, graffitied billboard informed them that they had just entered “Illinois: the Land of Lincoln” and the never-ending fields of Kentuckian corn suddenly turned into never-ending fields of Illinoisan corn. Cas, on the other hand, was visibly unsettled. He looked like he’d just entered a war zone, his eyes darting around as though he expected to be shot at any moment. That was enough to set Dean on edge too.

By the time they arrived in Roanoke, the sun was already halfway set and the road had just started to get dark enough for Cas to turn on the headlights. They took Exit 14, getting onto another major road for a few miles before turning off that one as well, entering a small residential neighborhood. Eventually, Cas parked the Impala in front of a quaint little house with a large, well-tended garden and an interesting variety of wind chimes.

As soon as Cas turned the engine off, a stout black woman opened the house’s front door and walked out onto the porch. Her short curly hair was held away from her face by a brown headband, and something about her stance or her expression made Dean feel wary of what she might do to people who got on her bad side. For a moment as Castiel was clambering out of the car, Dean could have sworn that he saw the woman look directly at him— _at_ him, not _through_ him—but before he could be sure, she looked away and turned her attention to greeting Cas.

With the distance of the porch and the closed car door between them, Dean had a hard time making out their conversation. Castiel looked stiff and awkward, but there was none of the tension from earlier there, no white-knuckles or twitchiness. The woman put a kind hand on Castiel’s shoulder and started talking, her tone sympathetic.

“You didn’t see him on the road, did you? No? Good. Honey, it ain’t your fault. Raphael, he was headin’ that way a long time,” she said. Castiel replied, but too quietly for Dean to hear, and the woman answered in a similar tone. A few more brief words were exchanged, and they both looked back to the car, the woman’s eyes immediately meeting Dean’s.

“The wheel turned away, you said? It don’t sound like this thing means you harm, hon,” the woman said, approaching the car and pulling the driver-side door ajar. “Why you think you got a poltergeist if it’s been nothin’ but nice to you?”

“Well, he keeps changing the radio to rock stations. And he seems to enjoy moving things when I’m not looking. I’ve been told that that kind of behavior is typical of—”

“You keep sayin’ ‘he’. What makes you so sure it ain’t a ‘she’?”

Cas blinked and glanced down at his feet before turning his gaze to the car. “I… don’t know,” he answered, brow creasing. “I just thought…. I suppose it could be a ‘she’…”

Dean snorted.

“Don’t worry about it, I was just wonderin’ if somethin’ had tipped you off. You were right,” the woman said, and Cas’s brow creased even more. “It _is_ a ‘he’, and his name’s Dean.”

Dean balked and stared. The woman stared back, smiling.

“I’m Missouri,” she said to him, “and I’m a psychic.”

The séance was ready about an hour after sundown.

Summer in Illinois was warm, even at night. The street Missouri lived on was quiet and empty, the windows of each house glowing faintly despite their drawn curtains. Only the chirps of cicadas and the distant rush of cars on a faraway freeway disturbed the silence. Dean could feel a slight breeze through the open passenger-side window, stirring leaves and coaxing a few rings from the chimes hanging on the awning above Missouri’s porch. A little way down the road, a street lamp flickered.

Cas and Missouri had gone inside the house a while ago, saying that they’d be back as soon as they had the supplies ready. Last week, Dean would have scoffed at the mere mention of a séance, but after everything that had happened, he didn’t really care if she wanted to call the Ghostbusters as long as it got this mess sorted out. If there was anyone rooting for a séance, it was him, but did it really have to take this long to set up? What did they need? A crystal ball? A Ouija board?

Apparently, the answer to his question was “a lot of shit”. When Missouri and Cas finally appeared on the porch, they were carrying candles, sprigs of herbs, a shallow dish, and a weird assortment of other seemingly random objects. “You’ve got to be kidding me…” Dean muttered under his breath.

“Are you a psychic, Dean? No? I didn’t think so,” said Missouri without missing a beat. “Don’t knock down things you don’t know nothin’ about.”

“What did he say?” Castiel asked.

“Oh, nothin’, hon, don’t worry about it.”

Dean kept his mouth determinedly shut while Missouri began lighting candles, sprinkling herbs on the seats, and drawing symbols with chalk on the hood of the car. Castiel stood to the side awkwardly until Missouri opened the driver-side door and ushered him in. “You gonna stand out there the whole time like a pigeon?” she said. “Come on, get in.”

Castiel obeyed meekly, and Dean got the impression that Missouri wasn’t the kind of person to disagree with. Missouri herself got into the back seat, sitting in the center behind Dean and Cas. “You can sit in the front, if you’d like,” Cas offered her, but she just shook her head.

“No, Dean’s sittin’ there,” she said. “Now, let’s get started.”

Missouri took her bowl and started adding ingredients, murmuring a string of unintelligible words too quiet to hear. Outside, the breeze picked up again. The smell of the burning candles blew in through the windows, smoky and dense, and the radio started to pick up static.

At first, Dean thought that it wasn’t going to work. Nothing was changing besides the tone of Missouri’s voice, and the wind had snuffed out a few of the candles. And then… he felt a tug. It was like standing on a bus that lurches forward before you get a chance to find a seat. The world was being pulled out from under him, and then all at once, he was flickering into existence.

“Dean?” said Cas softly, and he was looking at him, actually _looking at him_ , blue eyes wide, and Dean couldn’t help but stare back.

“Uh, hi,” Dean added pointlessly after a few moments. “Yeah, um…. I’m Dean. The mechanic, back from Lawrence?”

Belatedly, Cas offered his hand for Dean to shake. As soon as Dean tried to take it, his fingers passed right through, and he felt a dark weight settle in his chest.

“I’m still a ghost,” Dean said. “I thought….”

“No, a séance don’t cure a thing like this. It just puts you in the visible realm,” Missouri said. “You’re not a ghost, though, so don’t you start worryin’ about that—they woulda found your body if you were a ghost. As nasty as this curse is, it’s easy to reverse if you can find the witch who cast it.”

“Witch?”

“Witches exist, Dean,” Castiel said unnecessarily.

Somehow, even after what had happened to him, Dean was finding that concept hard to accept. He gave Cas another look and raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever seen a witch, then?”

“Yes.”

“So, what, they do magic or something? Boil cauldrons of poison? Grow warts on their noses? What?”

“They’re not cartoons.”

“Okay, then what are they?”

“They’re ordinary people who follow old scriptures and learn how to cast spells.”

Dean frowned. “You realize how crazy that sounds, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Castiel said, nodding. “But I don’t see how this particular piece of information is any more difficult to take in than ghosts and séances.”

He had a point.

Dean sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. Nothing he thought he knew about the paranormal was relevant anymore, and that was just how it was going to have to be. “So, some crazy lady—”

“Men can be witches, too,” Cas interjected. Missouri had her mouth open as well, as though she had been about to say the same thing, and Dean felt suddenly very lucky that Cas had been a little bit faster.

“Okay, fine.” Dean conceded. “A crazy _person_ decides they want to curse me, and so I turn into some kind of car-ghost?”

“I suppose so.”

“How can you two be sure it’s a witch?”

Castiel shrugged. “What else would it be?”

Missouri made a derisive sound. “A spell like this could’ve been done by a lot of things. You just don’t know all of ‘em. But this is still definitely a witch’s handiwork, I can feel it. Did you check the car for hex bags, Castiel?”

“No, I neglected to do that…” said Cas, looking embarrassed.

“Well, as soon as this séance is over, you get on it, you hear?”

“Of course.”

“How do you know all this stuff about witches, Cas?” Dean asked.

Castiel’s brow furrowed a little. “Did you call me ‘Cas’...?”

“Oh.” Dean rubbed his neck. “I, um. Sorry. I can call you ‘Castiel’. I just—”

“No, ‘Cas’ is okay. I just wasn’t expecting….”

“Yeah, no, that’s fine. Cas it is, then, if that’s cool with you….”

“Of course.”

“Awesome. Okay, so, Cas. You and Missouri both know a lot about witches. Missouri’s a psychic, but you, you’re not a psychic too, are you?”

“No, no, I’m not a psychic,” Castiel answered before pausing, as if collecting himself. “I… My family used to be… intimately involved with witches. I witnessed some of their spells firsthand.”

Missouri had a grim look on her face, but Dean was curious, so he pressed on. “What kind of spells are we talking? Turning people into frogs, or—”

“Killing spells, mostly. Some of them involve torture. Others force the victim to act in certain ways, or perform certain tasks. It depends on the witch.”

“Wow. That’s…” Dean fell silent. He really didn’t even know how to comment.

“It’s likely that whoever cursed you was looking for revenge of some sort,” Castiel continued. “Can you think of anyone who would have wanted to do you harm?”

And just like that, everything clicked into place.

“Shit,” Dean said. “No, yeah, uh, I think I know who cursed me.”

“Is it someone you know well? Would we be able to find them?”

“Yeah, definitely. I know where she lives.” Dean replied. “She’s my brother’s fiancée.”

After the séance, Missouri insisted that Castiel stay the night. “You two can take off for Lawrence first thing, but I don’t want you drivin’ on the roads this late,” she said. Eventually, Castiel consented. Before going inside for the night, Castiel dug around through the trunk of the Impala, trying to find a “hex bag” that the witch—that _Ruby_ would have left. Sure enough, a small, brown cloth pouch was tucked underneath a rolled-up sleeping bag near the back. Inside, they found the typical witchy spell ingredients: some herbs, a tooth, the skull of a small animal, an inch-tall wooden statuette of the devil. Initially, Castiel was insistent on burning it, but Missouri wasn’t so sure.

“The spell has already been cast, so we don’t know what destroyin’ it will do,” she said. “Who knows? If we burn that thing, Dean might be stuck like this forever.”

Castiel was far less resolute after that.

Once Missouri and Cas had cleaned up all the séance supplies from the car, they immediately began to head towards the house. Dean watched them go, unsure. He was beginning to feel a little slighted that they hadn’t offered him so much as a “Goodnight,” but then Missouri turned around and said, briskly, “Aren’t you comin’?”

“I, uh, I haven’t been able to get out of the car yet,” he replied awkwardly.

“Well, I don’t think you’ll have too much trouble now. Castiel, hon, you got the hex bag?”

Castiel pulled the brown pouch out of his pocket and nodded.

“With ghosts, they have, well, I guess you could call it a _range._ There’s a certain distance they can go around the thing they’re attached to. You’re no ghost, but I’m sure the same applies to you. Come on out.”

“Uh”—he glanced between Cas and Missouri—“sure, I guess. I’ll try this, but one of you is going to have to open the car door for me. I think opening doors is a little beyond what I can do.”

“Of course,” Cas said, and then he walked back towards the car a few paces and swung the passenger-side door ajar.

“Such a gentleman,” Dean joked. Cas smiled a little.

Hesitantly, Dean set his foot on the curb. He didn't expect anything, didn't let himself get his hopes up. But then his foot touched the sidewalk, and he felt the resistance of the hard concrete, solid, there. It was so... normal, ordinary, everyday. It was something he hadn't felt in a long time.

“Shit,” he said eloquently. That was… actually a little bit infuriating. Who knew how long he could have been able to walk around? Maybe he‘d been able to do this at the beginning and just hadn’t had the opportunity to try. He’d assumed that since he wasn’t able to push the doors open that he wouldn’t be able to get out, but clearly that wasn’t the case.

“Are you okay?” Cas asked, sounding more concerned than he had a right to be.

“What? No, yeah, I’m fine, just surprised.” He got to his feet, feeling his knees pop and his spine ache as he final stood upright for the first time in… a while. “Seriously, I feel great.”

He did feel a slight pull the further they got from the car, though. It was like a rubber band being stretched taut, not enough to break it, but getting there. He guessed some part of him was still attached to the car, something separate from the hex bag. By the time they got to the porch, it was a vague, uncomfortable tension somewhere in his chest.

“Now, boys,” said Missouri, opening the front door, “I only got one extra bed, so—”

“I’ll take a couch,” Dean said immediately. “I really don’t need a bed. I don’t even get cold anymore—I’m fine.”

Missouri gave Cas a look that Dean had no idea how to interpret, but she ushered him into her living room all the same. “Cas, hon, you know where the spare bedroom is, don’t you?”

“I—yes,” he replied, setting down the séance supplies he’d been carrying. His eyes met Dean’s, and then glanced at Missouri. “I’ll…. Goodnight, Dean. Missouri.”

Dean watched Cas disappear down the hall, and when he turned away he noticed that Missouri was looking at him thoughtfully, as though she were trying to work something out. “Uh, is this couch…?” he asked her, hoping to break her stare. It only half worked—she didn’t stop her little appraisal, but she did stand back and wave him towards the sofa.

“Of course, hon, that’s fine. You sure you don’t want any blankets?”

“No. Thanks, though.”

“Alright, then,” she said, finally looking away long enough to walk towards the hallway. She was just about to turn off the light when she turned back, giving Dean one last measuring look. “You know,” she began, “I’ve known Castiel since he was a boy. He’s grown up to be a fine young man, even though things are a little rough for him right now. Don’t hurt him, okay?”

“I won’t, ma’am,” Dean assured her. She nodded, apparently satisfied, and turned off the light. He heard her footsteps echoing down the hallway, followed by the close of a bedroom door. Then the house was quiet.

 _Don’t hurt him_.

He fell asleep trying to figure out what that meant.


	6. Good Times Bad Times

At dawn, they began the trip back to Lawrence. According to the atlas, it was only a six or seven hour drive, which meant they’d probably get there in the early afternoon if they drove all morning. Cas hadn’t mentioned doing something different, so Dean figured that was the plan.

Driving with Cas felt a lot more awkward now that he was visible and actually capable of conversation. He felt obligated to start talking, like it was his responsibility to make sure the silence never felt uncomfortable. That being said, Cas looked totally unfazed. Maybe it was just Dean.

“So….” Dean said a while later. “How’d you come to know a psychic? She seems like the real deal.”

“She _is_ the… ‘real deal’,” Cas said, and Dean could hear the air quotes even though Cas’s hands were still firmly planted on the wheel. “She’s known my family for a long time. We lived a few miles away.”

“Is that why you were so jumpy on the drive up here?” Dean asked, then realized his question was kind of an asshole question. “Sorry, man, you don’t have to answer that.”

“No, it’s fine,” Cas said, shaking his head. “I haven’t been home since I left, so I was… uneasy about being in the area. The Novak estate is just outside of Pontiac, Illinois, which is only half an hour away from Roanoke.”

“Wait, you grew up on an _estate?_ ” Dean took his feet off the dashboard and sat up in his seat. “Big house, gardeners, butlers, the whole nine yards?”

“Not exactly…. My family does employ people to tend to the acreage and the animals, but we’ve never had butlers. There is a housekeeper, though, and cleaning staff, a cook, and security staff. And a minister.”

“Wow. Okay. So, you’re rich?”

Cas looked uncomfortable. “I… guess we are. Although the money isn’t… ‘clean’ exactly.”

“Oh,” Dean said. He remembered the gun in the glove box.

“We don’t pay taxes on the lands or the income we make through investments.”

“ _Oh._ When you said that, I thought you meant you were all some kind of mafia hitmen.”

“Well…” Cas said.

“Shit, sorry.”

“...My family are witch hunters,” Castiel explained. “I suppose that’s similar to contract killing, in a way. They’re both considered organized crime.”

Dean… honestly had no idea what to say. On one hand, Cas was Cas. On the other, he was apparently….

“So, have you…. Have you ever….” Dean trailed off, unsure of how to phrase the question.

“I— No, not…. directly. I’ve helped during witch hunts, once my father determined that I was… ‘of age’. But I’ve never….”

“Ganked a witch?”

Castiel shot him a confused look. “Gank?”

“You know, take one out, blow it to hell, pop a cap?”

“If you mean… kill, then no, I haven’t. I left before that could happen.”

“That’s… good, good to know,” Dean said. He didn’t feel very intimidated, he realized. Just lost. How do you offer sympathy to a guy whose family is a bunch of witch-hunting vigilantes? He couldn’t even imagine what that could have been like, and he had no idea where to even begin. “...Sounds like you grew up real rough, Cas. I’m sorry for bringing this up.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t have told you unless I’d wanted to.”

“Okay, fair enough.”

A minute or so passed with nothing but the sound of the road and the engine before Castiel asked, “What about you? Did you grow up in Lawrence?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely. I’ve lived there all my life. Never even been out of the country”

“What is Lawrence like?”

“Well, it’s small, for one,” Dean said. “Less than a hundred thousand people, but everyone’s spread out enough that you only really know the people you live next to, you know? At least that’s the way it was with my parents.”

“I’m sure your parents must be worried about you.”

“What?” Dean didn’t understand what he meant for a moment, and then the words clicked. “Oh, no, they’re not…. My parents aren’t… around.”

Castiel shot him a look of genuine sympathy, if Dean had ever seen one. He was used to getting looks of pity, ever since he was a kid—but this wasn’t pity. This was the look of someone who _got_ it, and knew there was nothing he could do to make it better besides letting him know that he understood. Cas’s lips were tight and his brow was furrowed, but his eyes didn’t waver. “I’m sorry, Dean,” he said.

“No, it’s fine. My mom died when I was a kid—my brother wasn’t even walking yet—and my dad…. well, it’s been a couple years now. I’m sure you had it worse.”

“The suffering of others should not negate your own, Dean,” Castiel said ardently. “There are plenty of other people who have gone through more than either of us, but that doesn’t mean our own adversity isn’t important…. In any case, I’m not convinced that I had it any ‘worse’ than you.”

Dean shook his head. “Why not?”

“Well, your brother’s fiancée cursed you. I doubt that was an anomalous incident.”

Dean sighed. “No, no, it wasn’t…. She’s…. Well, she’s responsible for a lot of shit. The world would probably be a better place without her in it.”

Cas was silent. Dean figured Cas wouldn’t press him if he just left it at that and ended the conversation there. But…. For some reason, he _wanted_ to talk about this. He wanted to tell Cas. Cas had told him so much about himself already that Dean felt like it would be a little unfair if he didn’t return the favor.

“So…. My brother met her a while ago, at some bar. She really fucked him up. She got him hooked on some nasty shit—I’m not even sure what half of it was. At one point, I was pretty sure I found cocaine, but…. Well, I know he’d been on a lot more than just cocaine. And she cheated on him, all the fucking time. She tore him apart, you know? As if he didn’t already have it bad enough, with Dad….”

That was where he should’ve stopped. That was where he always stopped—even in his head, his train of thought always veered off the tracks when he got this far downhill. But then Cas glanced away from the road for half a second, his blue eyes finding Dean’s, and Dean found himself talking, talking, talking, more than he had in a really long time.

“Dad raised us after Mom died. It was on him to do everything: take care of us, run the house, run the auto shop. That was a lot, way more than one guy should be able to handle, especially after losing Mom and the house in the fire. Nobody human can do all that. Something had to fall through. He did the best he could.

“It was my job to take care of Sam most of the time. You figure out how to change a diaper pretty quick when there’s no one around to do it. Same with baby food and microwave dinners, and using the public bus systems. When Sam was old enough to go to school, I took him there. When Sam broke his arm, I took him to the ER on my bike. When Dad forgot to leave us cash for dinner a couple nights on end, I figured out how to apply for fake credit cards. None of it was all that hard—besides, the alternative was having no one do it, and Dad needed me to take up some responsibility.”

“Dean,” Cas said insistently, sounding almost angry. “You were a child. Children are not supposed to act like adults. Those were your father’s responsibilities, not yours.”

“Yeah, but…. When Mom died, it really hit him hard. He drank a lot, I think, since I remember him coming back home in the middle of the night and saying all kinds of things that didn’t make sense. He was having a rough time. And he never really got better, either. He was always a little broken up. We were all we had though, and we needed each other. I think that was why he got so mad when Sam left for college. That was what really broke him. A year later, he got terminal liver cancer.”

And _that,_ that was as far as Dean went. He fell silent, letting the radio and the road noises fill in the quiet.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Dean,” Cas said when it became clear that Dean wasn't going to continue. “I… I really appreciate it.”

“No, it’s…. You were the one who had to hear me ramble on about it, so.... Thank _you_ , you know, for listening.”

“You shouldn’t have to thank people for listening to you.”

“Well….” Dean cleared his throat. “Thanks anyway.”

They stopped in Chillicothe, Missouri, for lunch and gas. It was already around noon, and the Impala hadn’t been filled up since before the séance. The tank was almost empty.

The sun was directly overhead as Cas pulled into a Phillips 66, the nearest gas station to the freeway. He got the gas pumping right off the bat—filled the whole tank in five minutes flat before going into the convenience store with his wallet. “I’ll be back in a minute or so,” he said.

Dean busied himself by trying to guess the year, make, and model of each of the cars that passed by the gas station. He kept an eye on the people coming and leaving the gas station, too; ever since the incident back in Nebraska, he was a little distrustful of the people who frequented the gas stations they’d been stopping at. It was pretty empty, though—just a 20-something year old with his 90s sedan and an older woman with a pickup truck. A dark man in a black jacket went into the convenience store just as a twitchy-looking guy walked out with a pack of Menthols. A blue Volkswagen Jetta drove by.

Castiel was taking longer than a minute. One minute dragged on to two, and then four. Dean started to get concerned. How long did it take a guy to pay for gas and a PayDay? What was he getting in there, a full English breakfast? Dean craned his neck to get the best look he could inside the shop, and—

A loud shot rang out, making Dean jump and grab the seat. Was that…?

Castiel came racing out of the shop, running full-tilt towards the parked Impala. Dean sat up and took in Cas’s wide-eyed expression, his break-neck speed, and knew immediately that something was very, very wrong. He made sure all the doors were locked but the driver-side one when Castiel swung into the seat.

“Was that a fucking gunshot?" Dean asked as Castiel gunned the engine and careened out of the parking lot. “Did someone just try to fucking shoot you? Someone did, didn’t they? Fuck, fuck, fuck, you've got to be fucking _kidding_ me!”

Dean snapped his head back to the gas station, snatching a glimpse of a man in a dark hoodie tearing open the glass door of the gas station and stumbling outside, looking around wildly. The man's eyes zeroed in on them only a second before they shot out of sight.

“He— Fuck, that was the guy from Nebraska. He followed us. He must have followed us. Shit! Why is he following us?”

“Nebraska?”

“Yeah, yeah, he was there when we stopped for gas. The fucker tried to break into the car, so I hit the horn. He bolted before you came out."

Castiel’s face had gone white. “Are you sure you saw him in Nebraska?”

“I’m pretty fucking sure. How many guys in black hoodies want to rob and kill you?"

"Raphael.”

The name was one Dean had heard before—during Cas's phone call with Michael, when they were at Missouri’s—but the way Cas said it now made him sound like a surgeon announcing the time of death.

“Who’s Raphael?” Dean asked carefully.

“Raphael is my brother.”

“Why the fuck does he want to kill you?”

“When I left the… ‘family business’, a couple of my siblings were supportive. Most of them were not,” Castiel said stiffly. “Raphael announced that I was a traitor to the family and said that I knew too much to be allowed to leave. I was… a liability issue. He’s been tracking me ever since.”

“And your dad—he didn't do anything? He just _let_ his kids try to kill each other?”

“All of us are adults,” Castiel pointed out. “Besides.... He has what you might call a _laissez-faire_ parenting style. He rarely interferes.”

“That’s fucked up.”

“Thank you for your assessment.”

“No, it’s just…. I can’t even imagine….”

“Neither could I, but here I am,” said Castiel grimly. He changed the position of his left arm on the steering wheel, and then made a small, involuntary sound of pain, gritting his teeth and grimacing.

“Whoa, dude, are you okay?” Dean asked. Castiel nodded, but when Dean leaned forward to look at the arm facing away from him, he saw a large, red gash on Cas’s shoulder, the blood seeping into the cloth of his shirt so that it was nothing but red half-way down to his elbow.

“Holy _shit_ , Cas. You got shot. We need to—”

“I didn’t get shot. The bullet just grazed my shoulder. There isn’t an entrance or exit wound. It’s nothing—”

“That doesn’t fucking matter. We need to go to a hospital or something. Damn it, why didn’t you say anything?”

“We can’t go to a hospital,” said Cas firmly. “Raphael will check all the nearby hospitals.”

“What’s he going to do? Charge in with a shotgun? They have security staff. He wouldn’t try to kill you in a public place like that.”

“He knows more ways to kill me than that,” Castiel replied. “He’s a witch hunter. He knows how curses work better than most witches do. I don’t think he’s above using magic to kill me.”

“Shit….”

“We can’t go into Lawrence tonight. We can’t be sure how much he knows. He might be waiting for us there.”

“Okay, fair enough.”

“We probably should avoid staying at a hotel as well. Hotels are too easy for him to break into.”

“Fine. We’ll stay in the car. But at least tell me you’ll stop at a Walgreens to get some bandages or something.”

“I have a First-Aid kit in the back.”

Dean didn’t like that solution, but he felt like Cas had him cornered. “If that’s what we have to do, then… that’s what we’ll do,” he relented. “Your brother’s batshit crazy.”

“I know…” Castiel said. Dean watched him for a mile or two, trying to gauge how long Castiel could hold on for before Dean insisted they pulled over to deal with his arm. There was a new set to Castiel’s jaw, a new hardness to it, and although he seemed alert, his eyes looked tired. He must have shaved at Missouri’s, Dean noted. Castiel’s stubble wasn’t entirely gone—there was a shadow around his cheeks still, like he just hadn’t bothered to finish the job.

“Is there something you wanted to ask…?” Cas prompted, glancing away from the road to meet Dean’s stare for a moment.

“Hm? Oh, no, sorry,” he said quickly, then looked away. “It’s nothing.”


	7. Ramble On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Caution:** This chapter contains explicit sexual content. You have been warned (or encouraged, depending on your perspective).

Most of their afternoon was spent circling Lawrence. They kept within about an hour radius, and they never stayed on the same road for too long, although they did take a quick break to let Cas wrap up his shoulder. It didn’t take long for Dean to realize that Cas probably had a lot of experience with this. The thought made him angry—mostly at Raphael, but also at Cas’s family. He got mad enough that the radio started to pop with static, and Cas gave him a questioning look. Dean resolved to stop thinking about it after that.

When it got dark, they exited the highway and rolled into a small town called Wellsville. Cas parked the Impala outside an empty auto shop and turned off the engine, letting the small-town stillness wash in. There was a streetlight a little ways off, but otherwise, it was dark, save for the moon and the stars. It felt like the whole night was waiting for something.

Cas pushed his seat back, reclining it as far as it would go. Dean started to follow suit, but then paused, hesitant. “You know, I don’t mind sleeping in the back seat, if you want to lie across the front two,” he offered.

“No, that’s fine.”

“You sure? You’re the one who has to drive us in tomorrow, not me.”

“Yes, but you have to confront your brother’s fiancée tomorrow.”

“Yeah…” Dean said quietly. He could feel Castiel’s eyes watching him as he leaned back into the fully-reclined seat, keeping his eyes on the roof of the car.

“Is it worrying you?” asked Castiel eventually.

“No, not really,” he replied. It was a lie, and he got the feeling that Cas could tell as he studied Dean's face. That was the thing about Cas, though: he never pushed. The truth was, Cas didn’t have to. Dean ended up telling him anyway.

“It’s just,” he began, “I don’t think Sam will forgive me for this. He really likes Ruby—I’d have to be an idiot not to notice how much he cares about her. This… This is going to kill him.”

“It’s not your fault,” said Cas.

“Yeah…. It kind of is. I’m the one she cursed.”

“You can’t blame yourself for what she did.”

“I don’t think you know how much of a dick I was to her.”

“That doesn’t give her an excuse to do this to you.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asked, giving Cas a quizzical look. “I do sort of deserve this—if not for what I did to Ruby, then for what I did to Sam.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Why?”

“You were trying to do the right thing for your brother. I don’t know why you should be punished for that.”

“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t put so much stock in brothers trying to be helpful. Yours is trying to kill you.”

“That’s true,” Cas conceded with a small, wry smile.

The conversation dropped off, fading into the night. Cas was looking straight ahead at the empty town in front of them, and Dean took the opportunity to watch him, watch his jawline, his messy hair, his blue eyes— his mouth, too, for a second. But then Cas turned, and Dean was caught staring. He almost looked away. What stopped him was the way Cas looked back with equal intensity, his gaze flicking from Dean’s eyes to throat to mouth and back again.

Dean wasn’t stupid—he knew what was going on. He’d played enough games to remember how it worked. But…. This was _Cas_. For some reason, Dean felt stuck in limbo, stranded in the wastelands between “something happening” and “nothing happening”. It wasn’t because they’d just been attacked a few hours ago, or because they were in a parking lot in bumfuck nowhere. It didn’t even have anything to do with Dean being half-ghost or Cas being a dude—well, no, that was a lie. If he was honest with himself, it did have a little bit to do with how Cas was a guy; Dean still wasn’t quite over a childhood of heterosexual conditioning. But the main thing that held him back was the fact that the last time he’d kissed someone, he hadn’t even known her name. Hell, it had been a long time since Dean had done anything with someone he’d talked to long enough to say more than, “My place or yours?”

Cas was different, obviously. Dean had the feeling that if he and Cas did something now, it would be a long time before they stopped; weeks, months, years, even. He’d only done that once in his life—with a gal called Lisa—and that hadn’t ended well. Too much beer.

“Dean?” said Cas in a low voice. Dean glanced away, just for a second, and when he looked back, he made a decision.

“Cas,” Dean said, “I’m going to do something, and if I’m way out of line, tell me, okay?”

Cas was silent, so Dean leaned forward across the seat and brought his face closer to Cas’s, their lips hovering inches apart.

“I’m not sure if….” Dean trailed off.

“That’s fine.”

“I mean, I’m still, you know, half-ghost—”

“Please, Dean.”

That was difficult to argue with.

He leaned in the rest of the way and found Cas’s mouth. At first, Dean couldn’t touch him; their lips wouldn’t meet, no resistance, nothing but air. Then there was a light brush of skin against his lower lip, and he felt it, barely, almost like the memory of a kiss. That was enough. He pushed closer, letting the feeling of the tenuous kiss intensify to something more tangible, something real. Cas’s touch was soft and weightless. Dean’s lips tasted Cas’s just as often as they passed through them—it was intoxicating, in its own way. He thought that if he closed his eyes, he might start to think he was making it all up.

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice dark and rough. When Dean pressed harder, the lips pressed back. He felt the prick of fingertips on the back of his neck as Cas’s hands tried to draw him closer and he was perfectly willing to oblige. He let his own hands wander, breezing through hair, ghosting along arms. They kissed, touched, breathed—nothing but lips and tongues and skin and air. It was a long time before they pulled away long enough to catch their breath. Cas looked wrecked, though Dean was sure he didn’t look much better. He was busy doing everything he could to stay tangible, which, luckily, seemed to get easier the longer they kissed.

When Cas made a low groan deep in his throat, Dean couldn’t help but let out a sound of his own and move across the seat to straddle Cas’s lap, hands wavering in and out of Cas’s hair. Cas’s slacks were starting to look strained, uncomfortable. Dean wasn’t having that problem—he felt turned on as all hell, but had nothing to show for it. He fucking hated being a ghost. Damn it.

But there was still Cas, and Cas was definitely not a ghost, and he definitely wasn’t suffering from any ghost-related issues. They were both breathing hard in between kisses, so much that Dean could feel the air brushing through him after each gasp. “You want me to—” Dean murmured, his hand trailing up Cas’s thigh.

“Yes,” said Cas firmly, almost growling, and _holy shit_ , God damn Dean to hell three times over because when Cas spoke like that, Dean felt like he was on fire.

Slowly, Dean moved a hand up to cup Cas’s crotch, reveling in the way Cas’s hips jerked up into his touch. He fumbled at Cas’s zipper a few times before he finally felt the cool metal beneath his fingertips. It wasn’t long before Dean had Cas’s pants yanked half-way down his thighs and his hand wrapped feverishly around Cas’s cock.

“Shit, Cas,” Dean said, slowly moving his hand back and forth, just— _Christ,_ the look on Cas’s face…. Cas was warm against his palm, and Cas’s eyes were closed, his face red and damp with sweat. He was biting his lip, breath ragged, hair mussed, shirt wrinkled, hipbones sharp….

“Dean,” Cas gasped. “I….”

“I know, Cas— _Fuck,_ I… I won’t stop.”

Dean picked up the pace and was rewarded by a rough moan and jerk from Cas’s hips. Two more strokes, three, four, and Cas was close, Dean could see it on his face. Another touch made Cas’s breath catch in his throat, and Dean had to kiss him, he _had_ to. Cas came with the brush of lips and Dean’s hand on his cock and his fingers tangled in Dean’s hair.

After some Starbucks napkins from the glovebox were put to good use, they lay down in the seats, side by side, sharing a moment of quiet. The silence was comfortable, and for once, Dean didn’t feel like the universe was falling to shit around him. There was always this stillness with Cas, this calmness, a kind of reassurance that even though things weren’t always going to be alright, they could work through it until eventually, it turned out okay. Cas made him feel like he deserved to be okay, and maybe that was stupid, but… he was fine with that.

“Cas?” he whispered into the dark. He listened for a few moments, but he heard nothing except the rhythmic sound of Cas’s breathing. Cas was asleep.

“G’night, Cas,” he murmured. Then he settled down close to Cas and waited until he, too, could fall asleep under the same stars, the same moonlit Kansan sky he’d known all his life—a sky he'd never seen so bright.


	8. Baby Come On Home

Although they’d intended to move out as soon as the sun came up, it was midday before they left for Lawrence. Cas took as many back roads as possible, which made the drive take a little longer than it should have. At least Cas had agreed to speed up a little. Dean had been getting tired of driving slower than a senior citizen on a Sunday.

Dean directed Cas to the place where Sam and Ruby lived, even though it wasn't their house, not really. It was Dean and Sam’s childhood home, the one they’d lived in after the fire. Dad had left it to Dean, after he died, and since Dean had a place of his own already, Dean hadn't seen any harm in passing the paperwork over to Sam. That was before Ruby had come back. It felt like a betrayal, letting her into the home they'd grown up in. It was the place where he'd taught Sam to ride a bike, how to make TV dinners, how to shave. Dean still knew the way home like the back of his hand.

Working out what to do once they got there was far more difficult. He had figured he would just wing it, but now that they’d arrived, he hand no idea what he would say. “Hey bro! Sorry for ditching you for a week! Oh, by the way, your fiancée’s a witch—literally!”

And then there was the more logistical problem of being a ghost.

When they arrived at the house, Castiel got out of the car and went straight to the trunk, where the hex bag was still tucked away. Then be opened Dean’s door, hex bag a bulge in his coat pocket, and stepped aside. He was still getting used to being able to leave the car. Every time he put a foot on the street, he half-expected to fall through.

When he got to the door, the weird, elastic tension was trying to pull him back to the car. It was uncomfortable, but not nearly as unnerving as being on Sam’s porch. He didn’t knock, not right away at least. Cas stood a few feet behind him, supportive but giving him space. Dean had been gone almost a week; he had no idea how Sam was going to react. Maybe he wasn’t even home. Maybe Dean should wait….

No, fuck that. He rapped a fist on the door quickly before he could change his mind.

Luckily, his brother _was_ home, but it wasn’t Sam who answered the door. A head of long brown hair appeared briefly in an adjacent window, and then there she was, jeans, boots, and leather jacket, her expression alarmed.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Dean said in lieu of a greeting. Her eyes flicked from him to Cas and then back, and Dean would have gloated at the brilliance of his play-on-words if it hadn’t been for the panic in his gut. His sense of humor was a bit of a defense mechanism.

“Sam?” Ruby called, keeping her gaze on Dean.

“Yeah, babe?” said Sam’s voice from further inside the house.

“Your brother is here.”

“ _What?_ ” There was a loud crash, followed by a muffled “ _Shoot!_ ” and then Sam appeared, dishcloth in hand, looking frazzled but grinning. A weight settled in Dean’s chest.

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam exclaimed. He held his arms open, walking forward, and Dean realized at the last second that Sam was going to try to hug him, which would be a very bad idea, considering the fact that Dean couldn’t always keep up the whole tangibility thing. He took a step back, away from Sam’s outstretched arms, and instead of an embrace he was given a slightly hurt look.

“Uh, hey, Sam,” he mumbled awkwardly. There was a brief, tense pause before Dean realized they were waiting for him to introduce the guy standing behind him. “Oh, this is Cas—Castiel. He’s, uh….”

And what the fuck was he supposed to say about Cas?

When it became clear to everyone that Dean was not going to finish the statement, Sam said, “Do you guys want to come inside?”

“Sure, yeah.”

He followed Sam into the foyer, but as soon as they started to walk towards the next room, Dean felt the pull of the car stretch taut, and he stopped. Cas gave him a concerned look, but he waved it off.

“We can go into the living room, if you want?” Sam suggested when he saw that they weren’t following. Ruby stood just behind her fiancé, crossing her arms and saying nothing. The expression on her face was appraising in the way that a police officer evaluates a potential threat to determine whether to pull a gun or not. She seemed to Dean like a hawk, perched and waiting.

“Nah, that’s fine. In here’s fine,” Dean answered dismissively, leaning against the railing on the stairs up to the second floor. “We’re good.”

He hadn’t been inside Sam’s house in a while. Somehow, he’d never realized how apple-pie everything was—almost repulsively domestic. It looked like the epitome of suburban living: a well-tended lawn, brand-new carpet, a three-car garage. On the wall next to the door was a small, wire-and-wicker wreath that he swore probably came from Pier 1 Imports. Looking at the house made Dean feel both sickened and outrageously immature. Here was Sammy, his little brother, getting married and playing at grown-up while Dean was still living in a one-bedroom bachelor pad and forgetting to pay his water bill.

“So, um, Dean,” Sam said eventually. “What…. What happened to you? Where have you been?”

And there was the question he’d been expecting, but hearing it aloud still made him fidget. He almost answered, “What do you mean” but that would’ve been a bit too childish even for his standards. He glanced at Ruby, whose expression was still as cold as ice.

“Well, Sam, there’s been a whole lot of weird shit going on,” he said. “I don’t even really know where to start.”

Sam looked vaguely annoyed at that. “Okay, how about you start with, I don’t know, _where were you?_ I went to the garage, and Adam said you hadn’t showed up since Monday. I went to your house— _seven times_ , Dean—and you weren’t there. I even called Lisa to see if maybe you’d gone and hooked up with her again. I was _this close_ to filing a missing person report. Where the hell did you go? You didn’t tell anyone, you just disappeared.”

Dean snorted at Sam’s choice of words. Big mistake.

“How the hell is this funny to you, Dean? Tell me—I’d really like to know.”

“Hold on, Sam, just let me explain—”

This time, Dean was too slow to pull away. Sam reached an arm out to grab Dean’s shoulder, and the hand passed straight through. His whole body felt abruptly cold, and Sam backed away sharply, wide-eyed and shaking his head.

“Dean? Dean, what just… what happened? What’s going on?”

“Maybe you should ask your fiancée.” Dean replied peevishly. To her credit, Ruby looked just about as stunned as Sam did.

“Dean, what are you talking about? Why would she have anything to do with you being…?”

“Believe me, Sam, she has everything to do with it. All of this? Her fault. She was the one who—”

“Sam,” Cas interrupted. “We believe your fiancée is a witch.”

“What the fuck is this?” Ruby burst out, her rage filling the room like a broken hornet's nest. “You disappear for a whole fucking week and then you come back to tell Sam _this_? Are you high off your ass? What the fuck are you trying to do here?”

“Ruby, this isn’t—”

“No, Sam. I want to hear what he has to say for himself. If he’s going to walk in here and accuse me of something like that, he has to have the balls to tell me why.”

“Dean, maybe we should—” Cas tried to intervene.

“It’s fine, Cas. If she wants to hear it then I’ll tell her,” Dean said. “Last week, you came to the garage, and we had a little talk. I fell asleep at the garage, and the next morning, I’m like this—” Dean swiped his hand through the end post of the stair railing. “I don’t think that’s a fucking coincidence.”

“Well then, it’s too bad you’re wrong.”

“That’s exactly what you would say, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but you and your _boyfriend_ —”

“Keep Cas the fuck out of this. He’s not—”

“Dean—”

“Well, guess what? You brought him into this as soon as you walked into my house.”

“Please, Ruby, don’t—”

“Fine, then we can walk _out_ of your house. Cas and I were just leaving.”

“Dean, wait—”

“Bye, Sam!” Dean called as he strode towards the door. “Have fun marrying a witch!”

He didn’t bother waiting for Cas to open it—he walked straight into the wood and glass, feeling the solid material pass through him like an icy gale. He heard the door open and close behind him—just Cas—and didn’t stop walking until he got back to the car.

“I think that could have gone better,” Cas said after they shared a few moments of silence next to the Impala.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, shaking his head. “Probably.”


	9. Achilles’ Last Stand

They decided to risk going back to Dean’s house for the night.

Cas didn’t seem to be as worried about Raphael as he had been earlier. If Raphael had been on their trail before, they’d definitely lost him by now, and there was no way he would be able to anticipate where they were headed. Sure, Raphael knew Cas, but he didn’t know Dean—at least they hoped he didn’t. Raphael was good at what he did, but unless he’d gotten a car fixed in Kansas recently, he wasn’t likely to be familiar with Lawrence’s infamous alcoholic mechanic, no matter how good his sources were. That was why they were hiding out in Dean’s living room instead of some kind of commercial parking lot. It was a much more comfortable place to discuss what went down at Sam’s house.

“She put on a good show, I’ll give her that,” Dean said, sitting on the arm of the couch in front of the TV. Cas was sitting diagonally from him in the center of a tan loveseat, his arms folded in his lap.

“Ruby’s reactions were… convincing,” Cas agreed. “She could be a very good liar. Or….”

“No, Cas,” said Dean firmly. “It’s her. There’s no one else. It’s _got_ to be her.”

“It’s true that there doesn’t seem to be anyone else with a motive.”

“Exactly. She’s the Wicked Witch of Kansas—it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

Still, Cas looked troubled. “I’m going to get the hex bag from the bedroom,” he said, standing. “We might be able to find out more about the spell she cast. It’s possible I could work out a way to reverse it without her involvement.”

“Yeah, okay. Sounds good.”

Cas left the room, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood. It was dark—the green display on the microwave said it was already past ten—and because this was Lawrence, the house was totally quiet, aside from the ticking of a wall clock and the hum of the refrigerator. A dog barked somewhere in the neighborhood. Down the road, Dean heard the distant slamming a car door, and then—

A sudden rustling of leaves and plants outside in the back yard made him freeze, hold his breath, listen. He could have sworn he’d heard twigs snapping. It had sounded like footsteps, but... maybe it was just one of the neighbor’s cats? He got to his feet slowly, quietly, and stepped carefully over to the back window, peering out. He couldn’t see anything there, but it was dark. Maybe if he turned on the back porch light—

Castiel swept back into the room, holding the hex bag. He saw Dean standing at the window and paused. “Did you see something?”

Dean waved his hand dismissively. “Nah, just a cat. They come to shit in my yard all the time. You wanna check out the hex bag?”

“Yes.”

Dean walked back over to the couch as Cas carefully untied the leather cord and let the objects spill out onto the coffee table. He examined each one carefully, smelling herbs and running his thumb over the grooves on the carved satanic figurine. He had an intense look on his face as he studied them all, his expression becoming more and more perplexed until he shook his head.

“I don’t understand,” he murmured. “Nightshade, aconite, the bones, the carving…. This is very clearly a killing spell, but….”

“But I’m not dead?”

“Exactly.”

Cas picked up the tooth next, set it down, and picked up the small skull. It looked like it might have belonged to a mouse or a rat, and the yellow bone had gone brittle. Cas held it delicately, turning it from side to side. Then he turned it upside-down, and his eyes widened.

“Dean,” he said urgently. Dean leaned in closer, and Cas began to pull something from inside the back of the skull: a small, folded piece of paper. His eyes darted to Dean for a moment before he began to unfold it. As soon as the paper was flat, Cas flipped it over and his face went pale.

“...Cas, what is it?”

Cas set the paper down for Dean to see. It was an old, crumpled photograph of a man, faded with time and torn at the corners. Even though the man was smiling, two large, dark holes had been bored through his eyes. Something red was smeared near the bottom of the paper.

The man in the photograph was Castiel.

“It wasn’t supposed to be you,” said Cas, his voice unsteady but urgent. “It was supposed to be me. It was supposed to kill me, Dean, but you got in the way. It—”

“Cas, it’s not your fault.”

“No, Dean, _listen_. It wasn’t Ruby. It couldn’t have been Ruby. It was—”

The soft sound of the handle being turned on the back door made them both fall abruptly silent. He could feel the adrenaline settle in his gut as his heart began to pound faster and the hair at the back of his neck stood on end.

Cas hadn’t finished his sentence, but he didn’t need to. Dean knew what he’d been about to say.

 _Raphael_.

He and Cas exchanged a brief glance before they both rose from their seats soundlessly, moving away from the chairs and towards the doorway that connected the living room to the kitchen, where the back door was. Cas motioned for him to stand at one side of the door while he slipped over to the other, and they stood in a tense silence, backs to the wall, trying to quiet their own breathing.

The back door creaked open with a faint, shrill whine and then shut again. There was a pause, and then another breath, another set of hushed footsteps, another beating heart began to draw closer to them, closer until the intruder came to a stop just outside their doorway, as if waiting for them to make the first move. The standoff felt like an eternity to Dean. He didn’t dare move. He was becoming lightheaded from trying to stifle his breathing. Then, a floorboard creaked, a figure appeared, and—

Castiel leapt forward, tackling a man— _Raphael_ —to the floor and knocking a gun out of his hand. Cas tried to grab Raphael’s arms, but Raphael twisted away. Before Cas could pin him down, Raphael rolled to the side and flipped them so that he was the one holding Cas to the floor as he started to land blows on Cas’s face: once, twice, again, again.

“Hey!” Dean shouted. He looked around the room for something—anything—and tried to grab a floor lamp. His fingers passed straight through the metal shaft. Then Cas made a sound, a low groan of pain as another punch hit his jaw, and Dean tried again, this time feeling the cold weight of the lamp against his palm. He picked it up and swung it at Raphael’s head so hard that the metal bent.

Raphael was buffeted sideways, enough so that Cas could reel out from under him and scramble to his feet. Raphael was quick to follow, though his head was bleeding profusely now, a red stream reaching towards his chin. He took one look at Dean and lunged, but his fist went through Dean’s chest. That momentary confusion gave Cas enough time to plant a solid right hook on Raphael’s cheek, and then he and Cas were back in it, throwing punches and dodging them like they were professionals. Which they were, Dean realized. They _were_ professionals; this was what they’d been raised to do.

Raphael kicked Cas square in the chest and sent him crashing back into a bookcase with a loud _thud_. Winded, Cas flagged, taking hit after hit until his face was bloody. The blows didn’t stop, didn’t stop, didn’t stop, one after another. Dean searched frantically for something else he could turn into a makeshift weapon, but it was hard to think clearly. What the hell was he supposed to use? The coffee table? A car manual?

Cas was stumbling forward, having managed to get out from where Raphael had been pummeling him against the bookshelf. His foot kicked Raphael's discarded gun across the room, but he wasn't fast enough: Raphael got it first. Dean moved. He didn't know what he was doing, only that he saw a gun pointed at Cas, and he reacted. There wasn't much distance between him and Cas. Raphael was cocking the pistol. He felt something snap inside of him, like the break of a rubber band stretched too far. Dean jumped forward, grabbed Cas, pulled him down just as the sound of the gunshot obliterated all thought.

He and Cas were on the floor. Dean's arm hurt, _fuck_ did it hurt—

Raphael was cocking the gun a second time, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. Raphael pulled the trigger. A small click. Thank god—the gun was jammed.

But Raphael didn't miss a beat. He lurched forward and swung the butt of the gun at Cas's temple. It connected with a loud, solid sound, and then Cas was sliding back, going limp.

“Cas?!” he yelled. Suddenly a hand grabbed his arm and yanked him away. A fist hit his cheek, then his other. He was on his back. A fist on his nose, his cheek again, his jaw. Something hot and wet flowed down his face

“This is his fault,” Raphael said through clenched teeth, so close that Dean felt his breath against his skin. “He never should have left. He knew the consequences. He betrayed his family.”

Fingers curled around his throat, and there was no chance of ghosting out, no hint of disappearing. Somehow, the curse had been broken. Raphael's hands were squeezing tight, and everything they touched was solid and _there_. He couldn't breathe.

“He left us. Father didn’t approve. The fact that he got away is an insult to everything we stand for.”

The world began to grow dark around the edges. His lungs were screaming for air—he couldn't breathe, _he couldn't breathe_. Dad, Mom, Sam, Cas. This was….

“You can't live. People like you ruin people like—”

_Bang!_

The pressure around his neck disappeared. He gasped, then coughed, then gasped again. His throat tasted like blood.

“Dean?”

Cas’s voice. Cas. He reached forward and found him, crouched above him, and there he was, Cas, his nose bleeding and his face bruised, but he was there.

“Cas,” he croaked. Cas leaned down, pressing their foreheads together, shared his air.

“Dean, I’m so sorry—”

“No, Cas, it’s not your fault.”

“I shouldn’t have—”

“No. Stop it. It’s not your fault. Cas....”

Dean reached a hand to the back of Cas’s neck and tilted his head upward, pressing their lips together. Cas yielded. They moved in sync, sharing air and warmth and tongues. For once, he could feel Cas, feel him with lips that didn’t fade away at a touch, lips that could press _back_. The pressure of skin against skin was addictive, and Dean just wanted to forget everything but Cas and this kiss.

“Dean,” Cas said, his voice hitching. He pulled back minutely, their lips still barely brushing. “Dean, he’s dead. I shot him. He’s dead.”

“Raphael?”

“Yes.”

A cold, dark feeling stole into his chest. For the first time, Dean glanced over to where Raphael had fallen, seeing the red circle of blood that pooled around his head like a deadly halo. He looked away immediately, feeling sick.

“Dean, _I killed him_. He’s my brother.”

“He didn’t give you a choice, Cas.”

Cas just shook his head and closed his eyes. “He’s family. Family isn’t supposed to give you a choice.”

Dean didn’t know how to reply, so instead he found Cas’s lips again. The world around them was broken, _they_ were broken, but for now, he had Cas, and Cas had him. For now, that would have to be enough.


	10. In the Light

Apparently, when Dean had heroically pushed Cas out of the way of Raphael’s speeding bullet, the shot had clipped his arm. He hadn't really noticed it until Cas started to get handsy when they left the destroyed living room.

“It just ‘grazed’ my arm. There’s no ‘exit wound’ so it’s nothing,” Dean joked wryly. Cas shook his head and got some bandages from the first aid kit in Dean's bathroom, but Dean was pretty sure he saw a smile.

Whatever curse Raphael had put on Dean was gone now. Something about the strength of bullet and the willpower to stop it, he guessed. Cas theorized it might have had to do with the cyclical nature of magic—how Dean had gotten the curse in place of Cas and then lost it by taking a bullet for Cas instead. Dean was less sure. That explanation sounded too pretty, too fanciful.

The next thing to deal with was Raphael's corpse. They'd been avoiding going into the living room as much as they could, but the fact was that there was a body next to Dean's TV, and they had to do something about it. They were lucky that none of the neighbors had heard the gunshots and called the police.

Initially, Cas insisted that he could take care of it, that he knew what to do. Dean was skeptical—not of Cas’s expertise, but of his stoicism. At the end of the day, Raphael was—had been—Cas’s brother. They were still recovering from the shock of what had happened, and it didn’t seem like a good idea to confront it head-on just yet. He wasn’t surprised when Cas took a few steps into the living room and then turned back, head down, looking impassive except for the tremor in his hand when he reached for Dean’s forearm and murmured, “Actually, I’ll... call Michael.”

So they left the room as it was: broken, bloody, torn apart. They went to bed, still dressed in bloodstained clothes, and tried to sleep—far easier said than done. Neither of them was particularly good at sleeping in the first place. They both had their own nightmares that kept away the REM, and adding Raphael to the playlist wasn’t helping. It was nice, though, to pretend. They didn’t talk—Dean mostly just liked to listen to Cas breath, to know that he could reach out and touch if he wanted to, just to feel that Cas was there with him in the dark. Sometimes he woke up shaking, hearing a gunshot over and over again, and all he could do was stare at Cas, wide-eyed, because every time he closed them he saw Mom and Dad and Raphael’s blood and a gun and Sam and sometimes Sam with a gun and Cas, Cas with _his own_ blood and Raphael and a gun. Sometimes he would see the gleam of Castiel’s eyes staring back, and Dean would grope for Cas’s hand and feel it squeeze back in return. Not enough, but it was all they had.

At 3:00 A.M., Cas’s phone started to ring. He sat up and answered it, murmuring quietly. Twenty minutes later, Cas got out of bed, and Dean heard the sound of the front door opening before Cas returned and shut the bedroom door.

“Michael is taking care of it,” Cas whispered. There were footsteps in the living room, low voices, ten minutes of movement; then the front door shut, and silence came again.

It was a long night.

Neither of them was asleep when the doorbell rang.

“I should get it.”

“No, Dean, it could be Michael—”

“It’s 9 A.M., Cas. I live here. It’s fine.”

Luckily, he had the presence of mind to change into a different shirt before going to answer the door. He could feel Castiel’s eyes on his back as he slipped off the tattered, blood-stained clothes and found a clean flannel to pull on. The long look they exchanged before Dean left the bedroom almost made him want to get back in bed and just say “Fuck you” to whoever was out there, but then the doorbell rang again, louder and more insistent. He sighed.

In order to get to the front door, he had to cross the living room, which still looked like the Tasmanian Devil had broken out of Looney Tunes and torn apart half his furniture. Most of the books had been knocked out of the bookshelf, chairs and tables were overturned, and there was a bullet hole in the drywall. Thankfully, Michael had been true to his word, and there was no sign of Raphael anywhere—even the blood had been cleaned up. Still, when Dean got to the door and checked the peephole, he decided that, in retrospect, he should have been a little more prepared. Outside was Sam, his hair a mess and his shirt rumpled, looking to all the world like a lost puppy. Dean cursed.

He glanced at his face in a mirror, seeing nothing but cuts and bruises. The worst marks were the finger-shaped lines around his throat—dark, ugly stripes that his shirt did nothing to hide. Shit…. How the fuck was he going to explain this?

The doorbell rang again—twice in a row—and Dean called out, “Yeah, yeah, okay, I heard you the first time. I’m coming, just keep your panties on.”

He opened the door to a tall, bewildered Sam who blinked at him mid-knock as Dean stood in the doorway, blocking the inside of the house from view.

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam said immediately, his eyes flicking around Dean’s wreck of a face. “What _happened_ —”

“Hello, Sam,” said Cas, appearing behind Dean’s shoulder without warning. Dean could practically see the theory forming in Sam’s head as he glanced from Dean’s bruised face to Cas’s and then to Dean’s neck, his eyes beginning to widen.

“ _No_ ,” said Dean preemptively. “But if you want to come in, I’ll explain everything.”

“Oh, uh, sure. Okay,” Sam said, but before he took the invitation, he glanced back a bit to his right. That was when Dean saw Ruby standing there on his porch, just out of view, her arms folded and her expression reserved. Probably for the first time ever, Dean made an effort not to hate her.

“You can both come in, if you want,” Dean amended. He stepped back and opened the door a little wider, waving them in. “It’s, uh, a bit of a mess right now. Only a little bit worse than normal, though, right?”

Sam’s reaction to the living room was similar to his reaction to Dean’s face. “Dean, _what_ — Holy…. _God_ , Dean, what happened? Is that—?”

“Yeah, it’s a bullet hole, but don’t freak out. I’ll explain—”

“Have you called the police? If someone broke in and did this, you can get insurance to pay for damages. I’ll be your lawyer if you need one—”

“ _Sam_ , it’s fine now. Let’s go to the kitchen for a minute, okay? I’ll get you a beer.”

“It’s nine in the morning, Dean.”

“Yeah, and it’s five o’clock somewhere else.”

Sam looked unconvinced about both the room and the beer, but ultimately, it was a touch on the shoulder from Ruby that made him shut his mouth and follow Dean in. After passing Sam a bottle from the fridge and receiving a slight shake of the head from Cas, Dean turned to his brother’s fiancée.

“...You want one?” he asked carefully. She shrugged.

“Depends on what you got.”

“Uh… Well, I’ve got a lot more of the shitty stuff I gave Sam—”

Sam looked vaguely indignant.

“Oh, come on, Sam, anything better would have been wasted on you. You have no taste,” he said. “Anyway, I think I still have a few IPAs left, if you're interested.”

“What kind?”

“Well, I have a few from the Copperhead brewery—”

“I’ll take one of those.”

Dean raised an eyebrow and grabbed the bottle. “I would have taken you for a Miller Light type.”

“God no,” she said, accepting the beer. “Definitely not.”

Dean closed the fridge, his supply two beers shorter, and leaned against the counter to face his brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law. “So, I should probably, uh, apologize to you, to both of you, for yesterday. We were wrong—I was wrong.”

“Wow, Dean, I’m impressed. That’s a first for you,” Sam said.

“Shut up. I’m trying to be sincere.”

Sam had the grace to look abashed. “Yeah, yeah, sorry. Thanks, Dean. That means a lot.”

“Bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Dean shook his head and looked at the floor. God damn it, his eyes weren’t stinging. They weren’t.

“So,” Dean said gruffly. “About this—” Dean gestured vaguely to the living room. “—and, you know, the whole disappearing thing, and uh, Cas….”

“Yeah?” Sam prompted.

“Well, maybe I should just start from the beginning….”

He did the best he could, really. A lot of stuff got left out—the practical joking, the chai tea latte, the auto shop parking lot in Wellsville. It was a pretty abridged version of the story, and Sam had to ask him way too many clarifying questions, but when he got to the end, Sam was looking a little less concerned and a little less confused.

“So,” Dean concluded, “Raphael came. Beat us up pretty bad, obviously. The house is a wreck. But he’s, uh… gone. He won’t bother us ever again. We’re sure of that.”

“My brother has promised us that my family will leave us alone. They won’t interfere again unless there’s an immediate threat to our safety,” said Cas, drawing Dean’s gaze. To Dean, that sounded like more of a punishment than a blessing. It meant that Cas was effectively cut off from the family fortune and had to fend for himself. Not that Cas minded being financially independent. He didn’t seem to want anything to do with his family’s business, anyway.

Cas noticed Dean watching him and began to stare back. Christ, he was wearing one of Dean’s shirts—his AC/DC one. There was no doubt in Dean’s mind that Sam had noticed, but thankfully he seemed to be abstaining from comment. They were safe for now, at least.

“Well, uh,” said Sam, and Dean looked away from Cas abruptly. “Until your place gets fixed, you guys are welcome to stay with us. We’ve got an extra bed. Or two. Whatever you guys want.”

Damn it. He’d let his guard down too soon.

“One is fine,” said Cas before Dean could interject. _Shit_. Dean staunchly did not look at Sam, trying and undoubtedly failing to look nonchalant. He was never going to hear the end of this….

“Uh. Yeah. What he said. Thanks, Sam. That’d be great,” Dean agreed brusquely.

“Sure thing,” Sam replied. He was smirking, Dean wasn’t even looking at him and he knew Sam was smirking.

“Sam,” Cas said suddenly. “Before we go, I was hoping you could help me determine what kind of documentation I should take of the damage if we want to get some insurance money for this. Since you’re a lawyer….”

“Oh, yeah, sure. No problem. I can use the camera on my phone if you want to just show me the worst parts for now.”

“That would be near the bookcase…”

Sam and Cas went to the other room, leaving Dean and Ruby alone. It felt uncomfortable, but not nearly as bad as it used to be. Her arms were crossed, and she was still nursing the beer Dean had given her earlier.

“You said Cas’s brother was gone,” Ruby said as soon as Sam and Cas were out of earshot. “You mean that he’s dead, right?”

Dean stayed silent.

“I know how these things work. I had boyfriends before Sam. Most of them weren’t great guys,” she continued. “It’s the same every time. Even after they leave, or go to prison or whatever, you’re always a little scared. As long as they’re alive, you’re afraid that they’ll come back, because you can never be ‘sure’ that they won’t. You said that you were sure. For your sake, I hope he’s dead.”

Dean nodded, then said, “Just… don’t tell Sam, alright? I’m not sure he’d….”

“Yeah, I get it. He doesn’t need to know the gory details.”

Dean snorted humorlessly at the word choice and looked through the doorway of the kitchen into the living room, where Cas and Sam were crouched over the broken coffee table and snapping pictures.

“You and your brother have a type, you know,” Ruby said after a moment. Dean glanced over and saw that she was watching Cas and Sam too. “You both like people who get you in way over your heads.”

Dean considered that, looking at his brother, then at Cas, seeing the concentration in Cas’s eyes while he listened to something Sam was saying, and the lines of Cas’s shoulder blades, the way he pressed his lips together while looking at some of the marks on the table leg. Cas seemed to glow almost, like there was some kind of light coming from him that only Dean could see, that only Dean could feel, warming him from the inside out.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed finally. “Yeah, I think you might be right.”


	11. Epilogue

“I think she’s looking at you, Cas.”

“Who?”

“Ruby’s hot cousin.”

“Megan?”

“Yeah. And she looks like she wants to eat you.”

“Hm,” said Cas indifferently. He sidled closer to Dean as the aforementioned bridesmaid continued to stare at him through heavily mascaraed lashes, holding her champagne flute indolently between two fingers.

“Should we make out until she leaves?” Dean asked, only half joking.

“I think we’d attract more attention than we’d lose,” said Cas reasonably. “We wouldn’t want to steal the spotlight from the bride and groom.”

“Yeah, but they just got a whole two hours of spotlight during the ceremony. They might want a break.”

“Sam looks fine.”

“I guess,” Dean conceded, “but Ruby looks about ready to stab the photographer. She’s not even pretending to smile for him anymore.”

Sam and Ruby were currently having a photoshoot at the back of the reception hall. The photographer kept trying to get Ruby to turn sideways and pose like a tacky prom photo, and she kept getting it slightly wrong. After a minute or so more of what looked like frustrating readjustments and stale smiles, Ruby threw her hands in the air, grabbed Sam’s arm, and pulled him towards the food, calling, “Let’s cut the cake, everyone!”

“Ten bucks says they eat cake and ditch,” Dean said.

“I… wouldn’t be surprised. But they would miss most of the dancing.”

“Okay, I revise my bet. They’ll eat cake, do the opening dance, then Sam’ll ask the DJ to put on some of that shitty music he likes, and they’ll dance for a couple songs, and _then_ they’ll try to sneak out.”

“I don’t think the bride and groom will be able to sneak out without anyone noticing.”

“Yeah, but they’ll try anyway. Their hotel room is the penthouse, so it’s only like, a floor above ours. They don’t have to get far.”

“That’s true.”

“Besides,” said Dean, starting to grin. “If they leave, we can leave.”

“You’re being suggestive.”

“Yes, I am.”

“It will be nice to sleep on a mattress with a bed frame again.”

“Hey, we got a good deal on that house, even with the cost of replacing the shit furniture. We lucked out,” Dean said defensively. “Once we finish unpacking all the boxes I’ll start checking Craigslist for bed frames. Those should be pretty cheap, right?”

Cas shrugged.  “I have no idea.”

“Well, we can check the—fuck, she’s back,” Dean said suddenly, turning sideways and tilting his chin pointedly towards where Megan had reappeared after apparently acquiring a piece of cake. “I swear I saw her eying up Adam earlier. She’s had way too many of those little champagne things.”

“Maybe….”

“Do you still care about making a scene?” Dean asked. Cas seemed to consider the question for a moment before taking a step closer into Dean’s personal space.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” Dean grinned. He leaned forward, fitting their lips together and wrapping a hand around the back of Cas’s neck. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Megan turn away and leave, and he grinned against Cas’s mouth. It was a chaster kiss than they were used to, but he doubted it could be considered acceptable for public displays of affection, even at a wedding. By the time they broke apart, Dean’s hand had migrated upward to tangle in Cas’s hair, and his other hand was just below the small of Cas’s back.

“Have Ruby and Sam left yet?” Cas asked in a low voice, still close enough that their lips were almost brushing.

“Now look who’s being suggestive,” Dean smirked.

“But have they left?”

He glanced around the room. “I don’t see them.”

“Do you want to…?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah, let’s go.”

When they left the hall, quietly, hand in hand, not a single person was the wiser.

** The End **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who helped make this fic possible! That includes Katie the Artist, Meg the Beta, and my sister the Alpha/Cheer Team. This fic has really come a long way since I started it. Like, a _really_ long way. It's barely the same story—in the first draft, Ruby really is a witch, Raphael doesn't exist, and Dean is actually the car, not a ghost. If anyone's interested in seeing the horror that is the first draft, I'm happy to add a link to it so you can laugh at me. I think it just shows how much everyone has helped me out.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for stopping by. I hope it was worth the read.


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